


Tucker and Rose

by gallifreyslostson



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:27:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 38,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2271441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyslostson/pseuds/gallifreyslostson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor has to hide himself as a human, and Rose suddenly finds herself as PA to a foul-mouthed, bad-tempered politician.  NSFW.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lunch Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose has lunch with an old friend as she grapples with her new circumstances.

"Mister Tucker, did you need anything?" Rose asks, popping her head into Malcolm’s office.  "Only I was just about to take lunch, if that’s alright."

"Yeah, fine," he says without looking up, waving a dismissive hand at her.  She watches him for another moment, smile faltering a bit. He stills, sensing her persistent presence, and looks up at her sharply.  "Something else?"

"Nothing," she says quickly, rallying and smiling brightly once more.  “Just wondered if you wanted me to bring anything back for you.”

“A hammer to beat someone with would be nice,” he says, looking back down at his desk.  “Or myself.  Maybe if I hit myself harder enough, I’ll be as fucking stupid as these other fucking cunts, and I won’t be so bloody annoyed all the time.”

“How about a ham on rye?” she asks.

“Yeah, fine,” he says with a sigh.  “But don’t be late!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Mister Tucker,” she says, smiling when his head snaps up again to eye her suspiciously.  “See you soon.”

She retreats from the office, picking up her bag at her desk before making her way through the building.  For the past two weeks, she’s let Malcolm and everyone else think she leaves the building on her lunch breaks, but really she just crept down here, where she’d hidden the TARDIS once she realized who this new man wearing the Doctor’s face was.  She glances around as she reaches the doors to the abandoned storage closet, pulling out his sonic and unlocking the door.  She locks it again behind her, then smiles up at the familiar blue box.

“Hello, old girl,” she murmurs as she steps closer, pulling out her key.  “Did you miss me?”

She’s supposed to be on emergency power, but lights still come on when Rose steps inside, and a pleasant hum emits from the console.  Rose runs a hand over the surface lightly as she pulls her hair from its bun, then reaches for the jeans waiting for her over the railing.  She needs this transition.  Sure, she wears more comfortable clothes when she’s not at the office, but it’s not the same.  She needs to be able to be Rose Tyler, in the TARDIS, rather than Rose Tyler, Malcolm Tucker’s PA.

It’s not even that she doesn’t  _like_  Malcolm she muses as she makes herself a sandwich in the kitchen.  Strangely enough, although he seems to terrify everyone else with his foul temper and fouler tongue, she’s gotten along with him for the most part.  Maybe it’s some lingering bit of the Doctor in him.  God knows she’s still attracted to him, beyond reason, far more than she’d expected.  There’s moments that she’s struck by the strangeness of him looking out of her lover’s eyes, but something about his intensity is so familiar and foreign at the same time that she can’t seem to help being drawn to him.

It’s all just…very confusing.  She’s wished more than once that she’d had a more in depth conversation with the Doctor about all this before he changed, but there hadn’t been time.  She’s just not sure where the line is now.  Not that anything will actually  _happen_  with Malcolm, obviously.  Just…for the record.

She sighs as she makes her way back to the console room and flops into the jump seat, toeing on the monitor as she takes an aggressive bite of her sandwich.  The Doctor’s face comes on the screen immediately.

“Yes, hello, this on?” he asks, fidgeting with his collar.  “Yes, suppose it is.  Must be, I turned it on myself.  I think that might just be an obligatory start to any self made home video though, regardless of technology used.”

Rose laughs around her sandwich, watching her mad man ramble.

“Anyway, Rose,” he continues, focusing once again.  “My lovely Rose.  I’m sorry to have to do this to you, but you agreed that this was a good plan, and I’m taking your word for it, because you tend to yell when I apologize too much.  I _am_ sorry, though.  Last time!” he insists, putting up his hands in surrender as she shakes her head.  “Last time, I promise.”

“Yeah, you always say that,” she says, but she’s smiling.

“But I know you can handle this,” he goes on, clasping his hands.  “Because you’re Rose, and you’ve never failed to take everything that I—that our life threw at you, and come out the other side even more amazing and beautiful than before.”

“Flatterer,” she says with a snort.

“In the meantime there are some things to keep in mind,” he says.  “For one, no getting involved in big events—”

“Yeah, you kind of dropped the ball on that one, Mister Snarky Political Mouthpiece,” she says around another mouthful, reaching for the dial and fast forwarding.  She’s already gone over his rules a million times, and has them written down somewhere, just in case.  She returns it to normal speed near the end, taking a seat again.

“Lastly, you,” he says.  “Don’t let me abandon you, and please…don’t leave me.”  He looks down for a moment, the old shadow of fear playing up in his blue eyes for an instant before he looks back up.  “Listen, Rose, I don’t know who I’ll become.  I could be a terrible person.  I hope I’m not a terrible person.  Though…Scottish, so you never know.  Anyway, point is…no matter who I am, or who you are, remember that I’m still there…somewhere…and I love you.

“Thank you, Rose.  For everything, always.  See you soon.”

The image freezes as the recording ends, and Rose sets aside her empty plate as she stands.  She leans on the console as one hand reaches out, stroking the screen lightly.

"Miss you," she whispers.

oOoOo

She’s back in her skirt, hair tied back on a bun, when she gets back to the office later.  She sets down her purse and approaches Malcolm’s office with the sack the TARDIS had provided for his sandwich and crisps (“Blue Box Deli” she’d noted with a grin).  She can already hear Malcolm screaming on the phone.

"Because he’s a total cock up!" he’s yelling with his back to her as Rose enters his office and sets the sack down on his desk.  "A cock juggling thunder cunt—no I won’t relax!  There’s not enough Xanax on the fucking planet to make  _me_ relax!”. He turns and spies the food as she’s backing away, and puts his hand over the mouthpiece. 

"Thank you, Rose," he says, his voice quieter, and she nods mutely, thrown again by the incongruous but oh so familiar sincerity in his eyes.  He watches her for another moment, then twitches as the person on the other line says something.  "No, you listen to me—"

Rose shakes her head as he turns away again, heading back to her desk with a small smile.  She sinks into her chair, her thoughts swimming with two men who aren’t quite separate and aren’t quite the same, and runs her hands over her face with a groan.

It’s going to be a long three months.


	2. Hands off the Blonde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm takes issue with Ollie’s interest in his new PA.

After the sad demonstration of weak wills commonly called a meeting, Malcolm opened his office door to find Ollie loitering at Rose’s desk.

"You’re new here, right?" Ollie was asking, and Malcolm narrowed his eyes.  Neither of them had noticed him yet, so he waited, blatantly eavesdropping on his new PA.  "You started the same time as Tucker."

"Yeah," she said, looking up from her computer with a smile.  "Yeah, I did."

"God, I dunno what I’d do as his PA," Ollie said with feeling.

 _Get fired within four hours_ , Malcolm thought.   _Or piss yourself.  Probably both._

"He’s not so bad," Rose said.  Malcolm’s lips twitched, and he nearly smacked himself.

_No shagging the PA._

"He’s fucking terrifying," Ollie replied, and then Malcolm did smile, in a sort of predatory way.  "Anyway, I was wondering, since you’re…you know…new and all..if you’d…like to have lunch with me?"  He half sat on her desk, then straightened again, twitchy little ferret that he was.  "I could…show you around?"

The grin dropped from Malcolm’s face immediately.  He might not be able to fuck her—not that he wanted to, just a formality—but Ollie  _definitely_  wasn’t going to.

"Oh…Um…I should tell you, Ollie, I’m sort of seeing someone."

"Oh.  Oh, right, yeah, no, of course," Ollie stammered quickly, already backing up.  "Yeah, no, it was just as…you know…friends, but yeah—"

He stopped abruptly when he backed straight into Malcolm, then wheeled around and backed up again when he saw Malcolm’s glare.

"Ollie, are you hitting on my fucking PA?" he demanded.  " _Badly_?”

"Nuh-no, sir, of course not—"

"Of course you weren’t hitting on her?  Or of course you weren’t completely fucking cocking it up?"

"Suppose you could do better?" Rose asked, her tongue poking out a bit from her teeth as she smiled at him.  It was different from that friendly receptionist smile that she gave everyone else, and he tried to ignore the strange, alien things it did to him.

"In my sleep," he assured her before turning back to Ollie.  "What even made you think she was remotely fucking interested?"

"Sh-well, she sort of…smiled at me."

Malcolm stared at him.  ”She smiled at you.  And that means her knickers must be soaked at the thought of you, yes?”

"Nuh-no, sir—"

"She smiles at every trouser snake that enters this office," Malcolm reminded him curtly.  "It’s because she’s fucking  _nice_ , not fucking  _desperate_.”

"It’s fine," Rose said.  "Honestly."

"It’s not, but I can’t be arsed to do anything more," Malcolm snapped.  "Because there’s actually work to be done that doesn’t involve  _your_ primary school attempts to get your dick wet.  Get the fuck out.”  Ollie sprinted off then, and Malcolm shook his head as he turned back to Rose.  ”I need you in my office.”

"Yes, sir," she said, picking up a steno book and following him.  "Out of curiosity, who’s getting their dick wet in primary school?"

"I said ‘attempts’."

"Right."

"Are you really seeing someone?" he asked as she closed the door.  "Or was that a brush off?"

"I—it’s sort of…complicated," she said, avoiding his gaze as he stepped closer.

"Just so you’re aware," he said quietly.  "If it ever becomes…uncomplicated…I’ll take you to dinner.  Because a woman as beautiful and as bright as you deserves better than complicated…and a fuckton better than Ollie."

She grinned up at him, that tongue touched smile again.  ”Was that you showing off your chat up skills?”

"No," he said, stepping away again.  "But you’ve got to admit…better than Ollie’s."

"Definitely."


	3. Five Times Malcolm Tucker Wanted to Shag his PA…and the one time he did

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was just a matter of time. (Starts before the first two chapters, but ends after)

Malcolm Tucker sits in his desk chair, swiveled away from the desk to the slowly lightening window.  New promotion, new office, new view…new batch of complete fucking imbeciles to try not to strangle every day.  From the files he’s looked at so far, and the requests he’s received, it’s going to be an eternal struggle.

He groans, running his hands down his face wearily.  He’s supposed to have a PA too, but he’s already resigned himself to the very real possibility that whoever they assign to him will be about as useful as a eunuch in a whorehouse.

Come to think of it, the eunuch would probably be more useful. In an administrative capacity.

He doesn’t turn when there’s a knock at the door.  “If you’re not pizza or a prostitute, go away.”

"Who orders pizza at seven in the morning?" a female voice asks.

"People who haven’t been to bed yet," he answers.  "That rules out one, so unless you’re propositioning me, I’ll fucking repeat myself: Go. Away."

"That doesn’t actually rule out pizza delivery," the speaker replies conversationally.  "Maybe I’m just perpetually stunned at my own employment status."

He swivels then, eyeing the pretty blonde smirking at him from the doorway.  He has a fleeting hope that sex workers have taken to wearing business suits before pushing the thought away.  “What’s more useless than a eunuch in a whorehouse?”

"The customers," she answers promptly, and his lips twitch.  "Sorry, did you order pizza or a prostitute?"

"Neither," he says, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepling his fingers in front of him.  "Who are you?"

"Rose," she says, stepping further into the room, and he narrows his eyes a little, feeling a sort of odd deja vu.  "Rose Tyler.  Your PA.  So I guess I could order you a pizza if you haven’t gone to bed yet, but you’re on your own if you want a call girl."

"Then what’s the fucking point of you?" he asks.

"Haven’t the foggiest," she says, grinning at him, her tongue poking out just a little from her teeth, and his eyes hone in on it without thinking.

"I’m fine," he says after a second, sitting up straighter and tearing his eyes from her mouth, down to the paperwork already piling on his desk.  "Just… Do whatever it is PAs do."

“Yes, sir, Mister Tucker,” she says, giving him a smart salute when he lifts his eyes to her again.  His mouth drops open a little as she spins on her heel and walks out, drawing his eyes to a different place entirely.  He’s still staring a moment later when someone else, a young, ferret of a man, takes her place, rousing him from his reverie that absolutely did not consist of pressing her against the wall and sucking on her neck until she moaned his name.

oOoOo

It doesn’t take long for Malcolm to realize his PA is faulty.  Not as a PA, obviously.  She’s actually quite good in that capacity.  But possibly as a person.  And not because people don’t like her.   _Everybody_ likes Rose.  And everybody sympathizes with her, having to deal with him.  But she laughs.  Every damn time, she laughs.

She’s never phased by the things he says, the things that make everyone else terrified or furious.  When he’s screaming at fuckwits, when he’s threatening murder or assault, she doesn’t even twitch.

She’s not afraid of him, and hasn’t threatened to quit.  Bizarrely, she actually seems to  _like_ him…which has had some strange consequences.  The first being that he doesn’t actually hate her either.

Everything else on the list consists of other things he’s had a growing desire to do to her.  Every time she gives him a smart retort, or agrees with him about someone’s uselessness, or offers a suggestion that annoys him because he hadn’t thought of it first, he immediately starts to think about how much more interesting the conversation would be with a lot less clothes and a  _lot_  more fucking.

Clearly, something has to change immediately.

“Something you needed, Mister Tucker?” Rose asks, popping her head into his office.

“Yeah,” he says, staring at her for a second as he tries to push aside his wayward naked thoughts.  “Yes, Rose, sit down.”

She takes a seat across from his desk, and looks at him with polite attention.  He steeples his fingers, touching his mouth with his forefingers as he takes a breath, trying to sort out how to conduct this meeting.

She needs to go, obviously.

She’s the best fucking PA on the planet.

She’s smart and resourceful.

But she’s also distracting, because he wants to sleep with her.

He wants to do a lot of things with her.

And her smile makes his heart do strange things that a human heart, especially _his_ heart, should not be doing under any circumstances.

“Do you think this is the best position for you?” he asks, before he can examine that any further.

She tilts her head, studying him for a moment.  “Did you have another position in mind?”

_Several._

On his sofa, bent over his desk, in his bed…

He coughs, shaking his head a little.  “I just mean, isn’t there something more you’d like to be doing than being an assistant?”

“Plenty,” she says, smiling at him in a way that makes him half-hard and ready to groan.  “But this’ll do for now.”

“Right,” he says, his voice rougher than he’d like.  He coughs a little to clear it, then turns back to his computer.  “Well, then, just…make sure you’re keeping my fucking schedule straight and keeping that Ollie person from ever believing he can get a hold of me.”

“Will do, Mister Tucker,” she says, still grinning.  “Anything else?”

He shakes his head, waving a hand at her to leave…then glances at the door when she’s gone.  He lets his head fall to the desk, banging it once in frustration.

oOoOo

She’s been his PA for almost three weeks when he sees her take her hair down for the first time.

She stayed in for lunch to go through the financial records of an MP, trying to sort out how much of a disaster he was going to have to fix.  After about twenty minutes, he hears a moan, and his eyes shoot up to see her shaking her hair out gently.  She gives him an embarrassed smile when she sees him watching, returning her focus to the file in front of her.

He realizes two things very quickly:

One, he dearly wants her to moan again, preferably while he’s squeezing her tits.

Two, he has to find out if her hair is as soft as it looks.

Mostly the first thing.  With a side order of the second thing.  It’s possible that he might be able to get both…although probably without being able to touch her tits.

_No fucking the PA_ , he reminds himself, repeating what has become a mantra.  He narrows his eyes, standing and stepping behind her.  He hesitates a second, then places his fingers on each of her temples, massaging gently.

She sucks in a sharp breath, but then lets out a low groan that shoots straight to his groin. 

“Mmm, aren’t I supposed to be doing that for you?” she asks lazily, and his lips twitch at the non-existent effort to stop him.

“I’m not the one with a headache,” he explains.  “And I need you in good form to help me, because god knows this cunt doesn’t have a fucking clue how bad off he is.”

“Carry on then,” she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice.

He can’t help but think how easy it would be to sweep aside her hair—which is definitely as soft as it looks—and kiss her neck.  And, if he were to do that, how easy it would  _then_ be to drop one hand lower, over her shoulder to palm her breast, pinching her nipple until she gasps—

“Mister Tucker?”

He draws in a sharp breath, dropping his hands from her head and stepping back quickly.

“Right, well, if you’re not better now, take a fucking paracetamol or stop moaning,” he says harshly, moving behind his desk once more.

“No need,” she says mildly.  “I was just gonna say thanks.”

He glances up again to see her already focused back on the records, kicking himself for being an arse.

Yet another inexplicable event that only seems to happen in her presence.

_No fucking the PA_ , he orders himself again.

“You should leave your hair down,” he muses as he goes back to his own examination.  “It looks better, and won’t render you useless like that ridiculous fucking bun.”

“Yes, sir,” she says, and he looks up once more to see her giving him a small smile, and the corners of his mouth turn up a little in answer.

oOoOo

“Ah, Miss Tyler, just the girl we were looking for!”

Malcolm freezes at the voice around the corner, glancing back toward his office with narrowed eyes.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Rose asks, and he takes a step closer, leaning against the wall.

“Well, we, that is, Thompsan and I, were wondering if you’d do us a small favor,” Richards says in an oddly patronizing voice for someone so completely ineffectual.

“Were you?” Rose asks.  “And what would that be?”

“Well, we’ve got a little something we’d like to run by your boss,” Thompsan says.

“And you needed me to make you an appointment?”

“Er, well, no, not exactly,” Richards says.  “Thing is, Rose, we’ve all noticed a certain…way you have with him.  And well done, we might add. ‘Didn’t know he could be turned for a pretty face. Guess it just took the right one, am I right?”

“Certainly chose a good one,” Thompsan agreed with a laugh.

Malcolm crosses his arms over the file he’s holding and taps his thumb on his mouth irritably.  Fucking halfwits.  As if even Rose’s admittedly charming face could turn his head…or make her deserving of this sort of…petty fucking ridicule masquerading as compliments.

On the other hand…he does like her more than most people, inasmuch as he likes her at all.  It occurs to him suddenly that this might not have been an unfortunate accident.  Maybe she’d been put in his service on purpose—

Though he seriously doubts Thompsan and Richards were ever anywhere near that forward-thinking.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Rose says.

“Come now, girl,” Thompsan says.  “The man hates everyone, but he actually _flirts_  with you.  We’ve all seen it.”

“Hold on,” she says, and he can imagine her holding up her hand while she frowns, working through the scenario in her head.  “Let me see if I’ve got this right.  You tracked me down—alone—so that I could soften up Malcolm Tucker for you—for this…plan, whatever it is, that you’ve got?”

“More or less, more or less,” Richards said, and Malcolm turned his head, staring towards the corner in disbelief.

He actually fucking thought Rose was alright with this, and she was just bringing herself up to speed.

Fucking moron.

“So, we can explain the basics to you,” Richards goes on.  “It’s too complicated to expect you to remember the details, obviously.”

“Obviously,” she says coldly.  “But you know what, before we do that, can I just say something?”

“Of course, my dear,” Thompsan says.

“You are both absolutely the two most idiotic pieces of shit I’ve ever met,” she spits out.  “And I’ve met a lot.  Did you really think that you’d be able to manipulate me into doing the dirty work that you’re too cowardly to face yourself?   _Honestly_?”

“I—well, now, it’s just—”

“Unbelievable, that’s what it is,” Rose snaps, and Malcolm smiles.  “Listen to me, I’ve dealt with things scarier than Malcolm Tucker in my sleep, and could outmaneuver the devil himself if I had to, so if you think you’re going to talk me into being the ‘pretty face’ for your plans that you  _clearly_ don’t have enough confidence in to believe Malcolm would allow it from you, you can take a long walk off a short pier.  How’s that sound?”

Malcolm decides that they’ve probably had enough of her, and walks around the corner to see her practically vibrating with tension between the two men.  Her back is to him, but she starts turning when the men spot him and back up a pace.

“Rose,” he says, putting his hand on her shoulder.  “Why don’t you go back to the office while I have a…chat with your friends here?”

“I don’t—” she starts.

“Clearly,” he says, cutting off what is undoubtedly some stubborn comment about not needing his help.  It’s not about her needing help; it’s about him not being able to let them go without a word from him as well.  “Go back to the office.  We’ll talk about it later.”

“Yes, Mister Tucker,” she grinds out, turning fully.  She pauses as she passes, putting a hand on his arm.  “Give ‘em hell, Tucker,” she says quietly.

“I think you already did,” he murmurs, raising his eyebrows at her.

“Yeah,” she says, smiling a little, and his lips twitch as she continues down the hall.

All traces of a smile are gone, however, when he raises his eyes to the two men rooted to the spot.

“She’s my  _personal assistant_ ,” he says, glaring at them.  “She didn’t get that title because of her ‘pretty face’.  She got that title because she’s got more fucking sense in her little fucking finger than you two moronic products of tequila and broken condoms have put together!  The only reason you two aren’t going to be sacked by the end of the day is because I don’t want to deal with the fucking paperwork!  Don’t you  _ever_  try to use her to get to me again, or I swear to baby christ, I will end you.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Tucker,” Richardson mumbles.

“Jesus, Tucker, she’s just a PA,” Thompsan mutters.

“Yeah,” Malcolm said.  “And yet you risked your careers on her, and she tore you  _apart_.  Now tell me, what’s that say about you, and what’s that say about her?”  Neither of them said anything, and he made an irritated noise.  “Get the fuck out of my sight.  I don’t want to hear from you before next week, understood?”

Rose is chewing on a nail at her desk when he makes it back to his office, but she drops her hand and sits straighter up when she sees him.

“I’m sorry.”

He frowns at her in confusion.  “What for?”

“I…probably shouldn’t have yelled at them,” she says.  “I mean, I am just a PA, and I really had no right to—”

“You had every right,” he says stepping closer.  “Their move was dirty, and fucking insulting—to both of us.”  He hesitates, then reaches out, putting a hand on her cheek.  “And you’re not just a PA.  You’re  _my_ PA.  Which means you’re probably smarter than about half the people I interact with every day.”

“Only half?” she asks, giving him that damn tongue-touched smile, and the heat of pride instantly starts boiling over into another sort of heat entirely.

_No fucking the PA._

“Don’t want you to get a big head,” he says, swiping his thumb over her cheekbone once before dropping his hand.  “It really would ruin that pretty face of yours.”

“Can’t have that,” she laughs.  “Since it’s really my only asset.”

“Obviously,” he says, turning for his office.  He pauses at the threshold when she calls his name, turning back to look at her.

“Have you been flirting with me?” she asks.

_Every fucking chance I get._

“No, Rose,” he says.  “I don’t flirt.”

oOoOo

Dinner.  He offered to take her to dinner.  He still has no fucking idea why.

Well, he knows  _why_.

But as far as he’s aware, there isn’t enough insanity running in his family to actually make him  _do_ that.

He doesn’t have time for this.  Bad enough just wanting to shag her whenever she’s within arm’s reach, but  _this_?  Wanting to take her to dinner?  A woman two decades his junior, at least?  What the fuck was he  _thinking_?

He’d left shortly after the conversation, when his brain caught up with his mouth, and started prowling through the halls in a temper.  He’d had no real objective but to put space between him and Rose, but people started giving him odd looks, and once or twice had stopped him with questions he normally managed to avoid with Rose fielding his calls and visitors. 

He gives up eventually and heads back to the office, taking some deep breaths in the lift and calling himself every sort of fucking idiot for running away from his  _secretary,_ for god’s sake.

She’s not at her desk when he returns to the office, and he allows himself a small breath of relief as he blows into his office and makes a beeline for his desk.

_“OH FOR CHRIST’S SAKE_!” he shouts when he rounds the desk to find her kneeling behind it, arse in the air as she reaches for something under the desk.

She pops up at his outburst, spinning around to him and overbalancing.  He reaches out on reflex, pulling her close when she threatens to fall backwards.  Both his arms are around her, and one of her hands is  gripping his shoulder when she looks up at him, her eyes huge.

“I…I dropped my pen,” she stammers, holding it up in her other hand.

Every nerve in his body is screaming, and his mind is already jumping forward in seconds, to him crashing his mouth down on hers, to her pushing off his suit jacket as he spins her towards the desk, one arm reaching out to shove everything off as he thrusts his tongue into her mouth, to her hopping up on it and wrapping her legs around his hips, head lolling back as he kisses her neck, to the way she’ll moan his name—

“You need to go home,” he gasps, pushing her away.

“What?” she asks, staring at him in confusion, face flushed.  “Mal—Mister Tucker—”

“I mean, I’m not feeling well,” he says desperately.  “I’m going home, so you can take a half day too.  Might as well.”

“Not feeling well?”  She frowns, stepping closer and reaching for his forehead, but he dodges and grabs at his briefcase, shoving in the files hanging out of the side and snapping it closed.  “Did you need anything?”

_Cold shower and the wank of a lifetime._

“Nothing, it’s fine,” he says, making a grab for his coat.  “Just gonna have some soup and a nap.”

“I—alright,” she says, giving up when he yanks the door open and holds it for her.  “I guess…I’ll see you Monday?”

“Yes, Monday, good,” he says, trying not to groan as the scent of her shampoo, strawberries maybe, wafts up to him on her way out the door.  “I’m sure I’ll be fine then.”

_Or I’ll spontaneously combust._

oOoOo

He’s better by Monday, insofar as he can actually function around her again, and he’s grateful for the weekend apart to get his head back on straight.  His heart still stutters weirdly when she smiles at him, and his hands still twitch when she gets close, but it’s manageable again.

It works until some idiot makes a misstep at an evening press conference, and Rose shows up at Malcolm’s flat to help him salvage the situation.  It takes a few hours, and a ridiculous amount of phone calls, but eventually they manage to spin things so that one incompetent arse doesn’t make them all look like fools… More so than usual, at any rate.

"Whiskey?" he offers when they decide to call it quits.

"Yeah, alright," she says, standing and stretching as he moves to his liquor cabinet.  She starts wandering around the living room and dining room, and he glances at her as he pulls out a decanter and a couple of tumblers. 

He’s still in his button up and trousers, though his tie is loose and his sleeves are rolled up, but she managed to change into jeans and a T-shirt before everything blew up. There’s a thin strip of flesh between that’s revealed whenever she moves the right way, something he noticed within twenty seconds of her entering his flat, but he’d been too focused on the crisis at hand to fully appreciate it.  Now it’s a completely different story.  He nearly drops the tumbler when she reaches up to look at a book on a high shelf, his eyes following the line from her arm to her chest to that tantalizing bit of smooth skin hungrily.  When she catches his gaze, he turns back to his task quickly, berating himself.

"So is this what you do every night?" she asks, coming closer.  "Work and drink?"

"You make my life sound incredibly fucking dull, Miss Tyler."

"You were the one talking about whorehouses and prostitutes when we met," she reminds him, her eyes twinkling with mischief as he hands her a tumbler.  "What’s to say you haven’t got this whole secret life of sexual deviance?"

He takes a large drink from his own tumbler, gritting his teeth against the bite of the whiskey as he studies her.  She’s standing quite close, so close he’s once again assailed with the scent of her shampoo, and giving him her best tongue in teeth grin.  He struggles to remember all the reasons he shouldn’t sleep with her, but his voice of reason seems to have abandoned him for the moment.

_Fuck it._

"Tell me, Rose," he says in a low voice, burying his free hand in his pocket in an attempt not to grab her immediately.  "Are things still…complicated?"

She looks confused, then her mouth drops as she remembers their previous conversation.  She snaps it closed after a second, looking down at her tumbler and swilling the contents around.  He considers backing down for a split second, then she takes a drink, licking her bottom lip before looking up at him.

"Becoming less so."

"Stay with me tonight," he says, his hand twitching in his pocket.  "Come to bed with me."

She stares at him for a moment, then licks her lips again as she glances around.

"I thought you said you would take me to dinner first."

He looks back at the white cartons littering his coffee table.  “I paid for the fucking Chinese.”

"That isn’t the same thing," she says, regaining her composure enough to smile and roll her eyes.  "Taking someone to dinner means—"

He pulls his hand out of his pocket without another thought, fisting it in her hair and cutting her off cleanly as he presses his lips to hers.  She freezes, and he starts to pull away, but then she’s grabbing his tie and kissing him back, and his tongue is in her mouth and their teeth are clashing as their lips part only to meet again at a better angle and it’s fucking glorious.

He moves his hand down to her waist, pulling her flush against him and his suddenly  _raging_ hard on, growling against her mouth when she rolls her hips against him.  He walks her back a step, dipping her backwards a little over his arm as he gropes for the table behind her to put his glass down.  He barely registers the clink of her own glass before her other arm is around his neck.  He finally finds the surface and pushes the tumbler onto it, immediately bringing his now free hand up to her hair, breaking the kiss as he tugs her head back, and leaves a trail of open mouthed kisses down the column of her throat.  When he reaches the neckline of her shirt, he straightens, tugging her upright with him and looking down at her with hooded eyes, both of them panting slightly.

“Bedroom,” he scrapes out in a hoarse voice.

“Yeah,” she agrees, nodding vehemently.

He considers her a moment, tilting his head, and makes an executive decision.  “This has got to go first.”  It’s the only warning he gives before reaching for the hem of her t-shirt and tugging it up and over her head.  He eyes the lacy black bra underneath with open appreciation.  “Much better.”

“Glad you approve,” she says, and he growls again at the teasing grin, pushing her against the nearest wall and pinning her wrists above her head before kissing her again.  She recoils from the cool surface against her back, arching against him instead, but he pushes back with his hips, grinding them against her and effectively trapping her.  He maneuvers her hands around to get both wrists into one grasp, then lets his other hand fall to her chest, pulling down the lace covering one tit to palm it, massaging it and rolling her nipple between his fingers.  He releases her mouth in favor of bending down and captures that peak instead, nipping lightly before swirling his tongue around it as she moans out something unintelligible.

He lets go of her breast with an audible  _pop_ , straightening once more to look down at her.  Her eyes are dark beneath hooded lids, and he runs his thumb over her swollen bottom lip before stepping away, releasing her wrists and taking her by the hand.  Walking backwards, he tugs her with him towards his bedroom, gratified when she doesn’t even try to break eye contact as she follows.

He kisses her again as they enter the room, slowly, mapping out her mouth with his tongue.  His hands rest on her hips, thumbs moving in lazy circles as her fingers slide into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp and making him shiver.  He trails his fingers up her sides and around her back, reaching for the clasp of her bra.  Breaking the kiss to pepper kisses along her jaw, he undoes her bra and moves his lips to her shoulder as he pulls the straps down her arms and chucks the thing into some unknown corner.

He raises his head again to take her in, this half-naked goddess, and his lips twitch when he raises his eyes to hers and finds her watching him, amused and not ashamed.  He raises his hands to her hips again, spinning her around and bodily tossing her onto his bed amidst a cloud of giggles.  He allows himself a grin before following, covering his body with hers and kissing her again, feeling like he’ll never get enough of her lips on his.

(There’s a small part of him that’s feeling the same deja vu he had when he met her, like the taste and feel of her is somehow as familiar as it is new, but he puts it down to the fact that they seem to fit inexplicably well, that they’ve found an effortless rhythm without the trial and error it would take others.  Because they’re just that fucking incredible together.)

It’s only when he feels his lungs burning that he leaves her mouth again, kissing his way over her chin and down her throat to her chest, intent to lavish attention on the breast that had been neglected before.  When she moans his name, threading her fingers through his hair, he moves on, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses down her stomach as he reaches for the fly of her jeans.  Undoing the button, he moves to her hipbone, nipping and kissing and sucking hard as he pulls on her zip.

“Budge up,” he growls when he’s satisfied he’s left a mark that only they will know about, and she lifts her hips to let him pull her jeans and knickers down, and he stands to pull them off her ankles, tossing her socks across the room after them a moment later.  His eyes rove over her again as he leans over and wraps his hands around the backs of her knees.  “Do you have any fucking idea how gorgeous you are?”

“You seem intent on proving it,” she says, flashing a grin.

“Then allow me to continue stating my case,” he says, tugging at her knees so her legs dangle off the bed below her hips.  He drops one leg to the side as he kneels before her, wrapping his arm around her other leg as he kisses his way up her inner thigh, smiling against her skin at the keening sound she makes as he draws closer to her sex.  “Clear yet?”

“Near—uhhh—”  Her words peter off into a groan as he slides a finger into her wet heat, curling it upwards.  He pumps once, then adds a second digit, watching intently as she arches her back, hands fisting into his duvet.

“How about now?” he asks, hooking her knee over his shoulder and sliding his hand down to her hip as his fingers continue to fuck her.

“God, Malcolm—”

“Perhaps a bit more….tongue-wagging?”

He dips his head, running his tongue through her slick folds and clamping his hand down on her hip when she bucks against him with a gasp.  Her heel digs into his back as he circles her clit, and he switches to long, hard strokes against her, fingers pumping along the rough spot inside her.  She answers with panting moans, hips rolling against the hand keeping her in place.

“Malcolm,” she gasps after a moment, grabbing at his shoulder.  “Mal—guh, stop—”  He lifts his head, giving her a confused look, and then she’s sliding her leg off his shoulder and sitting up, grabbing his tie to pull him up and kiss him as his fingers slip out of her.  “Need you,” she gasps against his lips, tugging the knot of his tie loose.  “Naked…inside me.”

Her fingers may as well be made of fire, the way they trail heat down his sternum as she nimbly unbuttons his shirt, and he reaches for his belt without breaking the kiss, undoing it, along with his fly, hastily as he dares as she pushes his shirt from his shoulders.  She pushes herself back on the bed as he stands, shoving down his trousers and pants, tugging off his socks hurriedly before crawling up her body.  He kisses her once as he takes himself in hand and lines up with her entrance, then buries his face in her neck with a groan as he sinks into her, the feel of her hot and tight around him nearly making him explode on contact.

When he has himself under control again, he raises his head, pulling nearly completely out of her before thrusting in again, sucking in a breath at her groan.  He pushes himself up on his knees, tilting her hips up on his thighs to drive deeper into her as her legs wrap around his waist.  He sets a steady, deep rhythm as he leans forward, fondling one breast as her hips meet his thrust for thrust, and he lets out a growl as her nails rake down his back.

He speeds up, losing control when she gasps his name again, and he reaches a hand between them, and she starts panting loudly when his thumb makes contact with her clit.

“Fuck, Rose,” he rasps as her muscles start quivering around him, and something about that sets her off. 

She comes with a shout and a curse, and it’s only another two quick thrusts before his own vision explodes into stars as he collapses against her.

It’s not until his vision clears and his breathing starts to slow that he realizes that he’s on top of her and probably keeping her from breathing.  He rolls off of her with a groan and a curse, and she whimpers a little at the loss when he slips out of her.  After a moment, she sits up with a groan, and fumbles for something in the darkness before getting up and leaving the room, her naked form silhouetted for a split second against the light from the front of the flat.  He narrows his eyes, but doesn’t follow, instead stretching to turn on his bedside lamp.  He shifts around, stripping the duvet and tossing it unceremoniously onto the floor before sliding under the sheet.  He’s getting comfortable against the headboard when she comes back, looking dead sexy in his shirt and bearing the forgotten whiskeys from earlier.

Kneeling on the bed, she moves carefully until she’s straddling his hips, and hands him one of the tumblers as she takes a drink from the other.  He takes a sip from his own as his free hand runs up her thigh to rest on her hip.

“Tell me, Rose,” he says, thumb stroking the line of her hip bone.  “Do you make an effort to be that sexy, or is it just a natural talent?”

“A lady never reveals her secrets,” she says, grinning around the lip of her glass.

“I’m pretty fucking sure ladies don’t use that sort of language when they come either,” he says, arching an eyebrow.

“Oh, you’re one to talk about language,” she says with a laugh, and he grins at her.  She brings her glass down against his stomach, her hands cradling it as she tilts her head and studies him.  “You said you don’t flirt with me.”

“I’m a politician,” he says as he takes another drink.  “I lie.”

“Tell me something true.”

He swallows another drink, then lowers his arm, resting his glass against his shoulder as he watches her.

_I’ve been wanting to do that since the moment we met._

_I plan to do that again._

_Frequently._

_Starting in about twenty minutes._

_I think I’m falling for you._

_I think that started the moment we met, too._

“I love pears,” he says finally.

She blinks, then throws her head back and laughs.  After a moment, she lowers her head again to look at him.

“Really?”

“Fucking love them,” he insists.  “Can’t get enough.”

“We should really stock up on those for the office,” she tells him, still grinning.

“I think that would fall under your duties,” he says as he takes her glass.  “And if I don’t see a fresh basket of pears on my desk every fucking morning, we’re going to have problems.”

“Yes, Mister Tucker,” she says with a teasing grin, and he pauses while reaching to put the glasses on the side table, filing away the use of formal names during sex.  Repeatedly.  In as many rooms of their building as possible.

But for now, there’s the clinking sound as the glasses meet the surface of the table, and his hand in her hair dragging her down for a kiss, and her nails on his scalp, and his fingers unbuttoning the shirt cruel enough to hide her breasts from him.

Twenty minutes was way too far off anyway.


	4. Five Times Tucker was Almost Caught…and the time he made SURE he wasn’t

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm has a very...frustrating day.

Malcolm glances at his office door before making an irritated sound and returning to the memo he’s trying to skim, only to reread the same sentence he’s read at least fifteen times now.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” he mutters to himself, dropping the paper and running a hand over his face in frustration.

Rose had gone back to her flat early to change and keep up appearances, since it clearly wouldn’t do to show up together with her still in jeans and a t-shirt.  But after last night, all he sees when he tries to focus is her against his wall, or in his bed, face slack as she moans—

“Morning, Mister Tucker,” Rose chimes as she enters his office with a notebook and the media binder.

“Miss Tyler,” he says, leaning back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his stomach and attempting to ignore his half mast cock as she leans forward to place the binder on his desk.  “You’re looking particularly buoyant this morning.  Sleep well?”

“Not really,” she says with a grin, and he smiles as he stands, raising his hand toward her cheek and leaning in to kiss her.

“Right, seen the new bit on Abbot?” Jamie asks as he walks in, and Malcolm immediately straightens, dropping his hand and stepping away from his PA.  “That tosser is like a shite magnet.”

“That’s Social Affairs for you,” Malcolm says, dropping back into his chair with an irritated glance at his colleague and reaching for the media binder.  “Should make for an interesting 8:30.”

“We’ll go over your schedule later, then, Mister Tucker?” Rose asks as he opens the binder.

“Nothing I need to be aware of before the briefing?”

“Nothing that’s not in front of you,” she says as he looks up, and he smirks a little as he looks her over.  She allows herself a small smile before glancing at Jamie.  “I’ll just get back to my desk, then…and yes, I’ll make sure there’s coffee ready for you before the 8:30,” she adds when he opens his mouth, throwing him a smile over her shoulder when she turns and heads for the door.  His head tilts as he watches her walk away, hips swaying, but his eyes narrow when he spies Jamie doing the same thing.

“Oi, hey!” the other man protests when Malcolm reaches across the desk and slaps him upside the head.

oOoOo

“What scent is your shampoo?” Malcolm asks conversationally as they wait for the lift after his morning briefing.

“Strawberries and cream,” she says, giving him an odd look.  “Why?”

“Just wanted to be sure,” he says with a shrug, gesturing for her to precede him as the lift doors open.  “It’s been making me crazy for weeks, and I figured I might as well make sure I was blaming the right fucking fruit.”

“My shampoo?” she asks as he reaches across her to press the button for their floor.  “Weeks?  Really?”

“Really,” he assures her as the doors close, then turns and pulls her close to give her the kiss he’d missed out on earlier.  She lets out a squeak of surprise that quickly turns into a groan as he parts her lips with his tongue, and her arms slide around his neck.

His lips are on her throat a moment later, her head tilting to the side to grant him better access while his hand skims up her side toward her breast, when the lift bell chimes.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he snaps, pulling away hurriedly as the doors open.

"Morning, Tucker," a man says as he enters the lift.

"Miller," Malcolm acknowledges with a nod before the other man turns toward the door, then glances at Rose, raising his eyebrows as he lets out a slow breath.  She smirks up at him, and he shakes his head in annoyance at the interruption and her obvious amusement.

"Oh, Tucker," Miller says suddenly, turning to them again.  "I wonder if I could meet with you later to discuss—”

“Yes, probably, I’ll have Rose call your office later,” Malcolm says as the lift dings again and he ushers Rose out into the hall.

“Isn’t that always the way?” Miller asks with a chuckle.

“Yep, she knows when I’m going to shit before I do, it’s marvellous,” he replies, taking Rose’s arm and pulling her toward his office and out of earshot.  “Remind me next time to press the brakes,” he tells her in a low voice.

“There’s going to be a next time?” she asks, eyes wide when he looks down at her.

“Sorry, have I not made that clear?”  She grins, that stupid, tongue-touched grin, and he lets out a frustrated groan as they reach her desk.  “Don’t-don’t do that.  Fuck—get me someone to shout at.”

“Need to vent some frustration?” she asks as he heads for his office.

“Little bit,” he replies, slamming his office door behind him.

oOoOo

Malcolm pushes the end call button on his phone forcefully and chucks it across the room, narrowly missing Rose as she steps into his office.  She pivots on her heels to look at him, her eyebrows raised.

“Sorry.”

“Everything alright?” she asks, coming closer and laying a fresh new stack of paperwork on his desk, which he promptly glares at.

“Fucking peachy,” he mutters, swivelling a little in his chair.

She studies him for a moment, and he looks up at her as she rounds the desk toward him.

“Maybe,” she says, and he arches a brow as she places her hands on his shoulders and climbs onto the chair, her knees resting on either side of his thighs.  “Just maybe…yelling at people might not be the best way to work out your frustration.”

“Did you have a better idea?” he asks, sliding his hands up her thighs to her hips.

“A few,” she says, one hand drifting up to his hair, and his grip tightens when he feels her nails scraping over his scalp.

“I’m all ears,” he says, and lifts a hand to the back of her head to pull her down for a rough kiss.  He groans when her hips roll against his, and she breaks the kiss, looking down at him for a second before leaning in and begins kissing down his neck.  He sucks in a breath, tilting his head back and to the side to give her better access, and runs a hand down her spine.  She rolls her hips again, and he bucks against her.

“How’m I doing so far?” she asks, raising her head.  “Any of this helping?”

“Considerably,” he says gruffly.

She runs her hand down his chest, and he lets out another groan when she palms him through his trousers.

“How about that?” she asks as she leans down again, and she presses her lips to the other side of his neck.

“That…that helps too,” he admits, thrusting shallowly against her hand.  She hums a little against his skin as one of his hands reaches for her breast, palming it and massaging it for a moment before she pulls away and crawls off his lap.

He gives her a questioning glance, and she bites her lip before kneeling in front of him and reaching for his belt, and he’s practically ready to come just from the sight alone.  He reaches forward to run his hand through her hair as she undoes the buckle and moves on to his fly, then slides her hands up to hook over the waistband of his pants.  She looks up at him, and he plants his feet to lift his pelvis—

“Tucker!” Miller calls as he opens the door, and Malcolm’s hips slam down again as his hand shifts to the top of her head to push her back and under the desk as he pulls his chair in.  “Your PA called my office, said the only free time you had was for a lunch meeting.”

“How proactive of her,” he says, slamming a hand down on her wrist when her fingers begin to wander over his cock.  “Unfortunately, she failed to mention it to me.”

“Oh,” Miller said with a frown, stuffing his hands in his pockets.  “Well, not exactly the best PA, then—”

“I’m sure she was just looking forward to her own…lunch,” he says, wincing as the words left his mouth and a light snort came from below his desk.  He tightened his grip on her wrist a little, glancing at his desk.  “Just give me a second to clear up some of this shit, and I’ll meet you downstairs, yes?”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Miller says.  “Sorry again to spring this on you.”

“Springing’s…fine,” Malcolm replies.  “You couldn’t imagine some of the things that’ve sprung up on me lately.”

“Oh, I’m sure, nature of your job and all,” Miller says, rocking on his heels.  Malcolm stares at him for a second, then looks pointedly at the door.  “Right!  Yes, meet you downstairs in a few.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Malcolm says, snapping off a salute with his free hand as Miller makes for the door, and he lets out a breath as the door closes behind him.  He backs his chair up again and raises his eyebrows at Rose, crouching in the kneehole.  “Lunch meeting?”

“Sorry,” she says, looking genuinely contrite as he does up his fly.  “I got a bit…distracted.  That’s actually what I came in here to tell you.”

“Of fucking course it was,” he says, standing and holding a hand down to her.

“I was really looking forward to that lunch,” she tells him as he tugs on his jacket.

“Full of fucking protein.”

“Does a body good,” she adds, holding out his coat.  He pulls it on and stares at her, then shakes his head with an irritated sound before fisting a hand in her hair and kissing her hard.

“You’re going to be fucking terrible for productivity, I can feel it,” he says as he pulls away, turning for the door.  “Listen, while I’m gone, get in touch with those fuckwits in social affairs; haven’t had a chance to give Hugh the bollocking he deserves.  Oh, and make a note,” he says, pausing and holding the door open with a glance at the handle.  “This door has a lock.  Might come in handy in the future.”

“Yes, Mister Tucker,” Rose says with a smile.  He lets the door fall closed behind him, but turns when he hears Rose call his name again, only to find her inches away and holding up his phone.  “You forgot this.”

His eyes fall to her mouth as he takes the phone from her, her lips still a tad swollen from his last kiss, and barely stops himself from leaning in again.

“Oh, fuck me,” he groans as he turns away.

“I was trying,” she says, and he glances back to see her grinning cheekily at him.

“You’re enjoying this!” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at her.

“Little bit,” she admits with a laugh.

“If my cock falls off due to stress, I’m blaming you,” he mutters, turning away again.  “I like my cock.”

“I do too.”

“Oh that’s very fucking helpful.”

“Enjoy your lunch, Tucker,” she calls after him as he moves down the hall, and he lifts his hand in a wave, knowing that if he looks back he’s never going to leave.

He should have just called in today.

oOoOo

It’s almost three hours before he’s able to return to his office due to various errands and meetings, and he’s momentarily annoyed to find Rose’s desk vacant upon arrival to his floor.  He pulls out his phone to ring her as he enters his office, then pauses, eyes narrowing at the open pantry door.  He makes his way over to it, and finds Rose readying a tea tray.  He glances out at his office for a second before walking up behind her silently, smiling when she jumps as his still chilly fingers touch her waist.

“Tucker!”  One of his hands reach up to her neck, sweeping her hair aside.  “Did you…um.  Did you have a nice lunch?”

“Not particularly,” he says as he lowers his mouth to her neck, gratified when he hears her sharp intake of breath.

“There’s—ummm—”  Her words peter out as he reaches around her for her breast, squeezing gently, and she tilts her head to the side and swallows hard before rallying.  “There’s some things that need your attention.”

“I’m sure there are,” he agrees, his other hand reaching up to pull her collar aside, revealing more of her shoulder, which he immediately leaves a wet, open-mouthed kiss on.  He pinches her nipple as his hand drops to her hip again.

“Malcolm,” she breathes, one of her hands reaching back to grip his leg as he rocks his hips against her bum.  He slides his hand down her thigh, reaching for the hem of her skirt—

And barely has time between the rattle of the handle and opening of the hall door to jump away, gripping a shelf for support as he tries to consciously redirect blood flow back to his brain.

“Oh!” a secretary says in surprise.  “I’m sorry, Mister Tucker.  Is…is everything alright?”

“Fucking fantastic,” he replies, giving her a slightly manic grin before looking back at Rose, leaning on the counter in front of her.  Christ, they’re a fucking mess.  “Make sure those biscuits are chocolate, yes?  None of this low-sugar, heart healthy bollocks.”

“Of course, Mister Tucker,” Rose says, and he shakes his head at the smile in her voice as he turns back to his office.

Inside, he shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, silently cursing everyone in the building for being so bloody inconvenient while he’s trying to be as unprofessional as fucking possible with his PA.

oOoOo

An hour later, he’s walking down the hall with his eyes on a file after a terse meeting with Terri from DoSaC when someone suddenly grabs him, nearly pulling him off his feet as he’s hauled into what he only briefly registers as the ladies lavatory before he’s slammed against the wall and a pair of soft, full lips are pressed to his.  The file falls from his hand as he lifts it to tangle into Rose’s hair, and he pulls her tight against him with his other arm as he thrusts his tongue into her mouth.

She moans his name a moment later when he breaks the kiss, tugging on her hair to tilt her head as he attacks her neck.  The sound shoots straight to his hardening cock, and he releases her hair to spin her around, reversing their positions against the wall.  He leaves one hand holding her waist while the other travels down her leg, pulling it up at the knee to hook around his hip, and he bends his own knees slightly to grind his pelvis into hers with a groan.

“Door,” he mutters.

“What?”

“Did you lock the door?”

“Oh.”  She sucks in a breath as he rocks against her again, and he lifts his head as she shakes hers.  A curse leaves his lips as he lets go of her leg and backs up, keeping hold of her as she reaches for the lock—

Just as someone pushes from the other side.

She spins and shoves him at a nearby stall as the door opens, and he just barely manages to bite off a loud  _fuck_.

“Oh!” he hears bloody useless Terri gasp.  “Rose, you startled me!”

“Sorry about that,” Rose says while Terri moves toward a stall.  “No, don’t use that one!”

Malcolm holds his breath as the stall door swings open, but lets it out when he sees Terri is looking back at Rose, apparently not noticing him before the door swings forward again.

“Sorry, no, it’s…broken,” Rose says quickly.  “Clogged.”

Terri makes an impatient noise and moves to the next stall while Malcolm eases back onto the tank of the toilet and lifts his feet up on the seat.

“One would think that a government building—one recently rebuilt, I might add—would at least have decent plumbing.”

“Yeah, suppose one would,” Rose says, and he frowns a little at the strange, detached tone of her voice before pulling a face and covering his ears to block out the sound of the urine stream from the next stall.   _Not_ a mental picture he’d _ever_ fucking like to have.

“So, tell me Rose, how are you getting on?” Terri is asking after the toilet flushes and Malcolm feels safe enough to pull his hands away from his ears.

“I’m…fine?”

“It’s just that I know what a tit Malcolm can be,” Terri goes on as the faucet starts, and he glares in the general direction of the sound.  “He seems to really enjoy fucking people.”

He lets out a choking sound as he tries to keep from laughing, and grins when he hears Rose cough to cover it.

“No, it’s—it’s perfectly fine,” Rose says.  “He hasn’t…fucked me.”

 _Not for lack of fucking trying_ , he thinks ungraciously.

“Well, good,” Terri says, turning off the faucet and tugging a few paper towels out.  “You just don’t let him get to you.”

“I’ll try my best,” Rose promises.

“Yes, well,” Terri says, and he rolls his eyes, letting his head fall back against the tile wall a few times.

_Would you please just fucking **leave**?_

“I just need a minute,” Rose says after an awkward pause.

“Oh, yes, of course, all the time you need,” Terri says in a sympathetic tone.  “You just call me if you need to talk.”

“Will do,” Rose says, and—finally—there’s the sound of Terri’s heels heading for the door, and the squeak as it opens and closes.

He reaches forward, pulling the stall door open as he steps off the toilet, and stares at Rose with wide eyes for a second before she bursts out laughing.

“Jesus fucking christ,” he says, running a hand down his face.  “Are they all like that?  Checking up on you?”

“Usually,” she says with a grin, bending down to pick up the file he’d dropped earlier.

He shakes his head, stuffing one hand in his pocket as the other scratches at his head.  He studies her for a moment, then lets out a long breath.

“This has to stop,” he says seriously, and she looks away quickly.

“I’m sorry, I—”

She stops when he moves past her, pulling open the door and glancing around the hall before taking her hand and pulling her out with him.  He lets go of her hand once in the hall, shifting his grip to her elbow as he steers her away from the loo.

“Where are we going?” she asks with a frown.

“Field trip,” he says.  “Something I wanted to show you.”

oOoOo

“As you know, 10 Downing Street went through some…fairly intensive renovations a few years ago,” he says as he approaches their destination.  “But they paid special attention to detail, keeping everything as similar as possible, no matter how dated.  One particular point of interest,” he continues, letting go of her to open the double doors in front of them,  “is the cabinet room.”

An odd look he can’t quite interpret passes over her face, but it’s replaced by curiosity as he motions for her to precede him into the room.  He pulls the doors closed behind them and turns to a switch on the wall.

“Thing about this room,” he says.  “If the cabinet’s in session and in danger—”

“These are about the four most safest walls in Great Britain,” she finishes, with another strange look.

“Right you are, Miss Tyler,” he says, pushing the switch, and glancing around as steel shutters fall over every window and door.  Rose cuts her eyes to them, pursing her lips before looking back at him.

“Did you just create a panic room in order for us to have sex at work uninterrupted?”

“Too fucking right I did,” he says, then fists his hand in her hair and drags her closer to kiss her hard.  Apparently, she isn’t too disapproving, because the nails of one of her hands are immediately scraping over his scalp while the other tugs on his tie, pulling him with her as she walks backwards toward the conference table.

His hands move to her waist as she hits the table, and he lifts her onto it without breaking the kiss, and both their hands start moving with urgency.  She undoes his belt and fly with barely a fumble as he pushes up her skirt, and she tugs down his trousers and pants before putting one hand around his neck and planting the other on the table to lift her hips as he hooks his fingers around the waistband of her knickers.

He breaks the kiss to pull them down her legs, bending to nip at her inner thigh before stepping between her legs again and peppering kisses along her jaw and throat.  He takes himself in hand, slipping it through her  _incredibly_ wet heat, and she grabs onto his neck again when he hits her clit, letting out a panting moan as her hips jump.

Vowing to pay more attention to all her other bits later, he gives in to the increasing desperation built throughout the day, burying himself in her with one swift thrust that makes them both groan.  Her legs come up around his hips, her ankles locking at his arse, and he grips her hips with one hand as he starts to move, his other drifting up to support her neck.

It’s maybe a minute before he feels his balls tightening, and he shifts his stance, trying to find the best way to grind his pelvis against her and get her off.

“Malcolm!” she cries out suddenly, hands reaching under his shirt to rake her nails down his back, and he knows he’s hit it.  He picks up speed then, slamming into her, and he barely feels her start to come around him before he’s exploding inside her, holding her tightly to him and rocking against her as they ride out their orgasms.

Her hands start moving lazily over his back a moment later, and he idly wonders if she’s left more lasting marks on top of the ones from the night before.  Not that he minds, he muses, his thumb moving over the purple mark on her hip as he presses a kiss to her hair.  Her head is resting against his shoulder, and he massages her neck gently as feeling returns to his extremities.

She shifts slightly, turning to press her lips to his pulse point, and he lets out an appreciative hum as she lifts her head.  His hand leaves her neck to push her hair out of her face before he leans in to kiss her—a slow, deep kiss—directly contrasting the rough one earlier.

She licks her lips as he pulls away, opening her eyes slowly before smiling up at him.  “Better?”

“Oh, fuck yes,” he says with feeling, and she lets out a giggle as he pulls out of her with a groan.  He leans past her, pulling a few tissues from a box behind her to clean them up a bit, then steps back to pull up his pants and trousers, studying her as he tucks his shirt tails into place and does up his fly and belt.  Her hair is a little mussed, and her cheeks are still flushed, and there’s a look of lazy contentment on her face.

The prettiest Rose, he decides, is a recently fucked Rose.

He holds out an arm to steady her as she hops off the table, tossing the tissues into the waste basket with his other hand.  They both freeze and stare at each other when a voice starts calling from the other side of the steel shutter, accompanied by a loud banging.

“Hello?” the voice hollars, and Malcolm recognizes one of the lower rung—and thankfully dimmer—security flunkies with relief.  “Is everything alright in there?”

He leans down, scooping up Rose’s knickers and shoving them in his pocket before glancing at her, hitting the switch again at her nod.

“Oh, Mister Tucker,” the heavy set man says in surprise when the shutter lifts.  “Didn’t realize it was you in there.”

“Yes, I was just showing my PA here the ways the cabinet members can protect themselves in a crisis,” Malcolm lies smoothly, smiling at the man and nodding back at Rose.  “She’s a worrier, you see, bless.  Wouldn’t get a thing done without knowing our ministers are safe, and I couldn’t have that.”

“Yes, of course,” the man says, nodding quickly with a slightly worried grin.  “But, you know, it’s really against the rules—”

“Yeah, but we can keep this between us, mate,” Malcolm says, moving to the man’s side and putting his arm around him.  “Was just trying to help the girl out.  You wouldn’t want to get her into trouble just for worrying, would you?  Just look at her, look at her face.  Is that the face of a girl who’ll break the rules without a very good reason?  And what about me?  Working closely with the PM, stands to reason I’d want to make sure all aspects of his protection are in working order, don’t you think?  I don’t see any reason why we can’t just let this one slide, yes?”

“Well, when you put it that way,” the man says slowly, then grins and nods.  “Yeah, alright, Mister Tucker.  Anything for a mate, right?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” he says, grinning widely and shaking the man’s hand, clapping him on the back before looking back at Rose and nodding at the door.  “Rose?  Think it’s time we get back to the office.”

“Of course, Mister Tucker,” she says, picking up the file that once again landed on the floor, though he’s caring less and less about it’s contents.  “And thanks…er…what was it?”

“Davison, ma’am,” the guard says.  “Tony Davison.”

“Thanks, Tony,” she says, giving him a bright smile before following Malcolm out of the room.

He’s got his hands stuffed in his pockets as they stroll through the halls in silence, and it’s oddly comforting.  So much of his day is packed with filling all the quiet space with fast words, party lines and spin, that it’s nice to not feel the need to talk for a moment.

She does break the silence a moment later, though with a question.

“Am I gonna get those knickers back anytime soon?”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

“Right,” she says, giving him her best tongue-touched grin, and he smiles down at her.  She shakes her head, then glances at her watch.  “You know Mister Tucker, it’s almost time for me to go for the day, what with no late night crisis to handle as of yet.”

“Hmmm, suppose it is,” he allows, taking out his phone and checking to make sure that was, in fact, an accurate statement.

“I could even…dunno…go out to dinner,” she adds, not quite casually, and he gives her a sideways look before sighing.

“Listen, Rose,” he says, glancing around and then touching her arm to stop her.  “About that.  You know I can’t…actually take you to dinner.  I’m your boss, and a fairly high-up person.  It would…not go well, for either of us, if we were seen together at anything not…work related, if you catch my meaning.”

She studies him for a moment, eyes narrowing a little, but then her face clears.  “We could always order in.”

His mouth turns up in a crooked grin.  “Yes we can.  I’ll even buy again.”

“Well, that is a treat,” she laughs.  “Come on, Mister Tucker.  Let’s get out of here before some MP decides to tell the world the queen should be a man or something.  Or someone else decides to walk in on you harassing me.”

His mouth drops open as she walks away, throwing a grin over her shoulder as he makes a quick mental list of every way to avoid getting caught in the future.  If today was any hint, he’ll need it.


	5. The Merits of Staying Inside the Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm responds to his PA calling him old, in what can only be called a proportional response.

"These fucking useless wastes of the air I breathe,” Malcolm mutters as he waits for the lift with his PA.  “It’s not as if any of this is fucking difficult, like I’m asking them to lasso the bloody moon.  I want it done, I want it done right, is that so much to ask?"

"Of course not, sir,” Rose says.  “You’re just…particular."

"Yes, exactly!”  He nods emphatically as the lift doors open, waiting for Rose to follow before pressing the button for their floor.  “Maybe you should be in politics, at least you know how to take fucking direction.  But no, these people, these complete and utter twat mongers, they’ve got to ‘think outside the box’.  I  _am_  the fucking  _box_.  There’s no thinking outside me, because I’m the one who always makes these fucking plans work, and cleans up their fucking messes when they decide to get ‘creative’ on me.”

“Are you bigger on the inside?”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly, waving a dismissive hand.  “You do  _have_ considerable experience.  But maybe they think you’re a bit—”

She stops, biting her lip and pulling out her phone, making a show of checking his schedule.

"A bit what?"

"Nothing."

"No, what?” he demands, turning slightly towards her and frowning.  “What is it?  Spit it out!"

"Well, you do have  _considerable experience_ ,” she says again, reluctantly.  “Maybe they think you’re a bit…stuck in your ways?”

He stares at her for a beat as realization comes to him.  “Rose, are you calling me old?”

"No!”  Her eyes are wide and overly innocent as she puts her phone back in her pocket, and he narrows his own eyes at her suspiciously.  “I…I wouldn’t say _that_ —”

"You are!  You’re calling me old!"  She makes a few small noises as she tries to find something else to say, and he reels back when he realizes that she’s actually  _fighting a smile_.  “Right.”

He reaches past her, pressing the button to freeze the lift, then spins around and pushes her against the wall, kissing her hard and unbuttoning her jacket, getting at least a layer closer to her breast before he palms it, tweaking her nipple as his other hand grabs her hip, holding her in place as he grinds against her.  She has one hand raking through his short (admittedly silver) hair, sending shivers down his spine, while the other is grasping the back of his neck.  She nips at his lower lip, and he responds by pushing his tongue into her mouth, sliding it along hers before running it over the roof of her mouth, grinding against her again when she lets out a breathy moan.

It’s only another moment before he reaches for the hem of her skirt, and then her hand is travelling down too, skimming over his chest before reaching for his fly, lowering it without a fumble and pushing at his trousers and pants, freeing his cock just before he hoists her up.  She wraps her legs around his hips and her arm back around her neck as he slams her back against the wall, reaching down to push her knickers to the side before thrusting into her, letting out a growl at how wet and hot she is so quickly.  His mouth moves down to her neck, nosing her collar aside to expose more skin for him to bite and lick and kiss as he sets a rapid tempo, and she groans as his pelvis hits her just right with every thrust. 

It’s fast and it’s hot and it’s forever and it’s seconds before she shatters around him and he tumbles after her.  He rests his forehead against hers, both of their eyes closed as they rock against each other for another minute, prolonging the shudders running through both of them.

He lets her down as their breathing calms and his muscles scream, though he’s not about to admit the latter.  He opens his eyes to look down at her—hair mussed, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, looking thoroughly fucked.

"Don’t ever fucking call me old," he growls as he admires his handiwork.

She smiles up at him, her tongue poking out from between her teeth.  “Yes sir.”

He leans in, hovering over her mouth teasingly, then backs up before contact, pulling up his pants and trousers, tucking everything back into place.  They smirk at each other as she presses the button again and does the same, her skirt shimmying back down her thighs.  She’s just straightened her collar over what is sure to be a purple mark before long when the lift doors open again.  An intern waiting for the lift looks at them strangely as they step out.

"Take a fucking picture, it’ll last longer,” he snaps.

“Maybe even as long as you,” she remarks, throwing him a wicked grin as his eyes narrow.  She turns toward his office, and his head bows a little as he watches her walk away, heels clicking and hips swaying as she pulls out her phone again.  “Shall we go over your schedule for this afternoon, Mister Tucker?”

Best fucking PA in the universe.


	6. Scheduling Errors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose makes a glaring mistake.

“Does…does she need to be here for this?” Ollie asks nervously.

“Rose is my PA,” Malcolm says.  “She’s my PA because she’s not fucking useless, and because, strangely, I don’t hate her with every inch of my being.  I assure you, this will not become a habit, but it does make me nicer.”  Someone snorts, probably Rose, but he ignores it.  “As my PA, Rose keeps my schedule.  Tell me, Rose, do I have an appointment to get fucked?”

“No, sir,” the blonde says, deadpan, and the group looks just a little more terrified at her calm demeanor.

“Then maybe one of you can explain why it feels like someone is trying to fuck me,” he says.  “Because it feels like I’m getting fucked, and that’s clearly not on the agenda!”  The group of men—and Ollie—are silent, exchanging furtive glances.  “In your own time!”

“Er…Malcolm, it’s just that—”

“Yes?”  Malcolm gives the speaker his full, irate attention, and he stutters to a halt.  No one else tries to say anything, and he sighs heavily and rolls his eyes.  “Right, trot on home, have your mums change your nappies, then maybe you can scrape together a pile of shit that stinks more than your careers!”  He pauses to run a hand over his face in irritation before glaring at them again.  ”You have until 8 am to have something solid for me, or I swear to god, I’ll see everyone one of you sacked and humiliated, and if you think this is a fucking  _joke_ , Thompsan, just call up the cockstain that I had the misfortune of replacing with you.”

Thompsan, who’d started sniggering at ‘nappies’ goes rigid.  The two other men—and Ollie—nudge him to a standing position and shuffle out the door as a group.  Rose leaves with them to present a nice public face, thanking them for their time and all the other horse shit he can’t be bothered with.  He goes back to sifting through a mountain of paperwork until, ten minutes later, his computer beeps at him.  He hits a key absently, and it’s another minute before he actually looks at the message that pops up.  When he does see it, he goes still, glancing at the door before reading it again.

“Rose,” he says, hitting the intercom button.  “Can I see you a moment?”

“Of course, sir,” her reply comes through the speaker, and he’s sitting back, still staring at the message when she walks in, closing the door behind her with a click.  “You needed to see me?”

“Apparently,” he says slowly.  “It seems we’ve got an appointment.  But for all your talents as a PA, Miss Tyler, it seems you’ve made a critical scheduling error here.”

“Is that so?” she asks, walking around his desk with a smirk as he stands.

“You see, Rose,” he says, stepping around her to stand behind her.  “I don’t get fucked.  I do, however, on occasion, do the fucking.”

“My mistake,” she says, half turning her head when he leans down to brush his lips over her neck, his hands sliding over her waist.  “I won’t let it happen again.”

“See that you don’t.”  He slips his hands over her hips and down her thighs, bending his knees to touch the hem of her skirt before moving back up, bringing the skirt with him.  He feels her shiver when his fingers skip from her stockings to the creamy, bare flesh of her thighs, and he reaches one hand up to her shoulder, pushing until she bent over at the waist. 

“Jesus fucking christ,” he mutters, the sight of her bent over his desk, hands pressed against the surface, bringing his half hard cock fully to attention.  He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly before he speaks again.  “I think I’ll have to find some way to make you remember.”

He pushes a leg between hers, forcing her to take a step to the side to part them, and trails his fingers up her in inner thigh to her black—and ridiculously flimsy—lace knickers.

“I’m all ears,” she says, then groans when he lets a finger tease over the lace, and he shudders when he feels the moisture soaking through it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, whatever control he had of the situation diminishing fast.  He pushes the fabric aside to push a finger inside her, grinding his stiff erection against her bum at her moan.  She breathes his name, and he’s completely done for.  He removes his finger, ignoring her whimper, and reaches for her hips, tearing the fucking stupid excuses for knickers away from her before reaching for his fly.  He barely has his trousers and pants pushed down his when he buries himself in her with another oath.

"Fuck, Malcolm," she cries out, and he puts a hand over her mouth.

"Naughty, naughty," he says through gritted teeth, rocking against her, and she moans against his fingers…the same ones that had been so recently inside her. 

He lets out a groan and uses his free hand to grip her hip, giving him the leverage needs to pound into her, pulling her back into him even as he thrusts forward.  When he feels her get close, he starts to lose control himself, and lets out another curse before letting go of her hip to snake a hand around her front.  She starts making small, panting moans when his finger makes contact with her clit, moving in rough circles.

“Come for me, Rose,” he grinds out, and that does it, she’s gone, falling forward on her forearms with a long moan.  He teases her for a few more seconds, making her jump as he touches her oversensitized bud, then moves his hand to her hip again, holding her still for another few quick, shallow thrusts that send him careening over the edge.  His hand flies out to grip the desk with white knuckles as he comes inside her, rocking against as his vision clears.  It’s another few seconds before he can move, dropping his hand from her mouth to her shoulder, pulling her upright as he slips out of her.

He moves his hand up to her hair, tugging gently to pull her head back against his shoulder, and she angles herself instinctively and he leans down to kiss her, his other hand sliding around her waist.  He moves his thumb in slow circles as he lifts his head.

“Have I made myself clear?” he asks.

“Perfectly,” she says, giving him a tongue-touched smile that makes him growl and nip at her neck before letting go of her to reach for his trousers.

He pulls them up and collapses back into his chair, lacing his hands over his stomach and watching lazily as she straightens her skirt and looks around.  Then she freezes, staring at a spot by his shoe.

“You ripped my knickers.”

“Oh.”  He follows her gaze to the pitiful pile of shredded lace, then swings his eyes back to her.  “Yeah.  That should serve as a reminder then as well.  I’m sure you’ll get my fucking appointments right when you’re squirming in your seat with no knickers.”

She arches an eyebrow, and crosses her arms.  “I’m sure it will.  Is there anything else you needed, Mister Tucker?”

“No, that’ll be all, Miss Tyler,” he says, lips twitching.  His eyes follow her out of the room, hips swaying, and he lets out a slow, long breath when the door clicks shut.  He sits up straighter, trying to bring his mind back to the myriad of tasks at hand.  It’s only another minute or two before he’s distracted, his computer beeping at him again.  “Oh, what the fuck do you people want  _now_?”

He smiles when he reads the new appointment scheduled for the following day:

_2:00 pm: Fuck Rose._

At least she got it right this time.


	7. The Press Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm calls for help.

"I don’t think you fully appreciate the situation, Rose," Malcolm is saying into his phone.  He sets down his drink and turns away from the bar to survey the people milling about in the hall.  "A press dinner is easily the most mind numbingly boring affair ever dreamt up by god or man.  If I hear one more tepid, pathetic attempt at self-deprecating humor, I’m going to skewer my fucking eyeballs with bloody cocktail toothpicks, just to break the monotony."

"That’ll look festive," she replies dryly.  "It can’t be that bad.  Isn’t there someone there you know?  What about Terri?"

"Is that a joke?" he asks sharply, spinning back to the bar.  "Are you fucking joking with me right now?"

He swallows the last of his scotch and signals for another while she laughs.

"Think you can survive another twenty minutes?" she asks after a moment.

"What happens in twenty minutes?"

"I’ll send you a picture of my tits."

He tilts his head while he considers this, then nods at the bartender as he brings a fresh scotch.  “I could probably avoid toothpick blindness for twenty minutes.”

"A true hero," she says.  "Talk to you later, Tucker."

He tucks his phone back into his jacket pocket, looking up to see a group converging on his section of the bar.  He scoops up his scotch, making his way to a more isolated area to wait out the next twenty minutes.

He lasts ten before he pulls his phone out again, toying with it impatiently.  Someone takes the seat next to him, but he ignores them easily as they order a drink.

"For the director of communications, you’re magnificently uninterested in making nice with the press," a voice says after a moment, and he looks up to see a woman watching him with a small smile.

"Not really in my job description," he says.  "Manipulating the press, lying to press, threatening the press with bodily harm, that’s more my jurisdiction."

"Based on your reputation, you seem to be excelling at all of that," she remarks.  "Well done."

"Sorry, who are you?" he asks.

"Maddy Reynolds," she says, holding out a hand as he skims through his mental Rolodex.  "Online journalist."

"Oh," he says with distaste.  "A blogger.  Just what I fucking need."

“That’s a bit basic,” she says.  “I’m more than that.”

“Over-glorified blogger,” he amends, taking another long drink of his scotch and glancing at his phone.  Five more minutes.  How long does it take to take a fucking picture of tits anyway?

“Says the over-glorified publicist,” she says.

“Absolutely.”  He drops his phone in irritation and downs the last of his scotch.  “The government of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland thanks you for your comments, and would further thank you to kindly fuck off.”

“You really need to work on your professionalism, you know that?” she asks.

“Why’re you still talking?”

“Because you’re powerful and I’m ambitious,” she replies, and he narrows his eyes as he glances at her.  “I’m also double jointed and know where there’s a sizable store cupboard.”

“And this would be in exchange for?”

“My number on your speed dial.”

“I don’t—Rose, jesus christ!”  He jumps when he glances back to find Rose standing just behind him, arching a brow.  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“You’re married?” Maddy asks in confusion.

“Christ no,” he says, then follows her gaze down to where he’s been absently toying with the ring on his left hand.  “No, no, this is just a leftover habit from the last temporary lapse of sanity.”

“And this is—”

“Rose Tyler,” Rose tells her, holding out a hand and wearing a terrifyingly bright smile that’s all teeth and no warmth.  “Tucker’s PA.  Sorry, I’m going to have to steal him away.  Turns out that thing we talked about earlier is something better handled in person.”

He stares at her for a second before he realizes what she’s saying, and he wants to weep  with relief, kiss her, and fuck her against the wall, possibly even in that order.

“Right!  Yes, good, we should definitely get on that, right away.”

She gives him a tongue-touched smile that shoots straight to his cock, and he’s about ready to say to hell with it and push her against the bar when Maddy pipes up again.

“You’re the  _director of communications_!  Surely you have someone you can delegate things to for one night.”

“It really is a very sensitive matter,” Rose says, her hand moving over her collar and pulling his eyes to her chest like a magnet.  “I doubt anyone else could really get the job done.”

“Surely they could  _try_.”

“The fuck they can,” he snaps, to Maddy’s shock and Rose’s amusement.  “Sorry, thanks for the offer, but I’d really rather not dip my wick in what is probably a grab bag of venereal disease.  Best of luck with your blogging, though.”

He takes Rose’s arm and pulls her away amidst Maddy sputters of indignation.  She has to remind him to stop and pick up the coat he checked, and as soon as they’re out in the cool air he’s dragging her into a dark alley and pressing her up against the rough wall, a thigh between her legs and hands tight on her upper arms as he kisses her hard.

“Best fucking PA in the universe,” he breathes when he’s sure he won’t catch fire from needing to touch her.  “You’re a treasure and a fucking saint, you know that?”

“I try,” she teases.  “Better than a picture?”

“Oh fuck yes,” he says, smiling down at her and moving one hand to her cheek.  She grins, and he leans in to kiss her again, but she glances to the side and pulls away from his touch with an odd look.

“Why  _do_ you still wear that ring?” she asks, glancing from him to his upraised left hand.

“I dunno,” he says with a shrug, flipping his hand back and forth as he studies it.  “Honestly, most of the time, I forget it’s there.  It’s just…sort of…part of me.”

He frowns, narrowing his eyes at the feeling that he’s missing something, there’s some detail that’s escaped him but is just out of reach.  Then she’s obscuring his view of the ring as she takes his hand, raising it up to her cheek again.

“Just making sure it’s not the product of lingering and unrequited feelings for someone I’ll have to hate,” she says, raising her hands to the collar of his coat and pulling him closer.

“Absolutely fucking not,” he says, slipping his hand into her hair as he kisses her again, his other hand moving down to her waist under her coat as her arms slide up and around his neck.

“You know, Tucker,” she says, almost maintaining a conversational tone as he moves his lips over her jaw and down her throat.

“Hmm?”

“This might work better—and be a lot less conspicuous—if we actually  _leave_  the dinner for the  _press_.”

“Oh.”  He pauses, lips still on her skin, and nips at her before raising his head.  He backs up a pace and runs a critical eye over her, but decides she still looks decent.  After a quick glance around, he pulls her from the alley and hails a cab, intent on getting her to his flat as fast as fucking possible to get a live view of those perfect tits before spending a solid ten minutes with his face buried between her thighs to show his gratefulness.


	8. A Thorn in His Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm fights with himself.

He’s irritated.

That, in itself, isn’t new.

The  _cause_ of his irritation, on the other hand, is unprecedented and, frankly, baffling.

He glares at the offending item laying insolently on his desk, and runs his hands down his face.  It’s stupid, all of it.  Fucking ridiculous.  He’s Malcolm fucking Tucker, he’s  _important_ , he hasn’t got time for this horse shit.

“Mister Tucker?” Rose asks, ducking her head into his office, and he scoops the thing out of sight hurriedly.

“What, what is it?” he snaps.

“Treasury’s waiting for the draft of that memo,” she said calmly, arching an eyebrow.  “And Ollie’s asking to speak to you.  Again.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake!  Tell him I went to Majorca.”

“You were on television this morning.”

“Then tell him I fucking died, I don’t care,” he growls as he shuffles through the papers on his desk to find the memo.  “Tell him, if he wants to talk to me, to get out a fucking Ouija board, cause he’ll have better luck with that.”

“Yes sir,” she says, and he glances up to see her fighting a smile.

“Don’t do that,” he says.  “Don’t smile.  This isn’t fucking comedy hour.”

“Of course, sir,” she says earnestly, and he narrows his eyes suspiciously.  “The memo?”

“Right.”  He hands it off to her, and she turns to go.  He glances down at the…thing, then back at her.  “Rose, wait.”

“Yes, Mister Tucker?”

He stares at her, trying to figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to do now.  It’s completely insane, this thing with her.  Affairs with assistants and interns are frowned upon in public, but he’s always had the mentality that if it didn’t give him a mess to clean up, he couldn’t be arsed to care.  But he’s never actually  _had_ one.  Mostly because he hates everyone with the intensity of a supernova.

But now he has this PA that he wants to fuck on every surface available, a PA who is more than willing to oblige.  And there was some small part of him that swears she’s familiar, like some past life, new age bullshit, and it’s that part of him that makes him want to do disgusting, fluffy things like take her dancing and buy her…things.  Things that he won’t even be able to rip off with his teeth later.

And it’s fucking annoying.

But right now she’s staring at him with an eyebrow slowly raising the longer he stares at her. 

“Rose, I—”

What?

_I think you’re special._

No.

_I appreciate your services._

God, no.

_I’m in love with you._

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

He glances down again, and picks up the thing, tossing it across the desk.

“I bought those,” he says.  “Just fucking take them and don’t mention this to anyone.”

She stares at the heart shaped box, then up at him, a smile growing on her face that he tries to ignore.

“You bought me chocolates.”

“Yes, now, I’m pretty positive you have a memo to send off, so—”

He stops when she steps around the desk and puts one hand on the headrest of his chair and the other on his shoulder, pushing him back as she rests a knee next to his thigh.  His hands automatically go to her hips when she leans down and presses her lips to his, and it’s only a second before he feels the sweep of her tongue across his bottom lip.  He changes the angle of his head as her tongue delves into his open mouth, his grip tightening on her hips—

And the phone rings.

“OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE.”

“Malcolm Tucker’s office,” Rose says as she leans back and picks up the phone, affording him an amazing view of her breasts, straining the fabric of her thin button up.  “Hello Ollie.  No, he’s not in.  No, I’m not sure, he’s—” she glances at him “—under a lot of pressure at the moment.”

“Understatement of the fucking century,” he mutters, mostly to her breasts, but catches her smirk. 

“But I’ll tell him you called.  Again.”

“Where were we?” he growls as she replaces the phone, tugging at her hips..

“I was sending a memo to Treasury,” she says, standing up, and grinning at his disgruntled noise.  “Wouldn’t want us to have to…work late.”

He eyes shoot up at the deliberate pause, considering this.  “We might have to meet up later anyway, at my flat.  To go over some things.”

“Anything you say, Mister Tucker,” she says, a small smile playing on her lips as she sashays away.  “Oh, and thanks for the chocolates.”

Maybe he’ll get to rip something off with his teeth after all.

And that small, soft part of him is grinning like a loon.

Fucking terrific.


	9. Dream Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm starts talking in his sleep.

Rose woke up disoriented, a low muttering coming from behind her and weight over her hip.  It took a moment for her to remember that she was at the Doc—Malcolm’s flat, and it was him spooned up behind her, his arm slung over her lazily.  He twitched in his sleep, and Rose moved to brush a hand over his arm, to soothe him or wake him, but then he started talking again, and she froze.

"Rose, you’ve got to stop this."  Even in sleep, there was an urgency to it, one that sounded eerily familiar.  "You’ve got to stop this  _now_.”

She shifted carefully, flipping onto her back to watch him without disrupting him to greatly.  The altered positions left his hand on her hip, and his grip tightened reflexively.  She held her breath, waiting to see if he would say anything else, or if she’d startled him out of whatever dream he was having.

"You’ve got the entire Vortex running through your head," he went on after a moment, a frown creasing his brow, and she bit her lip at the concern in his voice.  "You’re gonna burn!"

Years ago, the Doctor had helped her remember what happened at the GameStation.  It was bizarre to hear those words coming through in his Scottish accent…and a little disconcerting since this man wasn’t supposed to remember any of it.

"Rose, you’ve done it.  Now stop.  Let it go."  He paused, twitching again and tugging at her lightly, drawing her closer.

She brought a hand up to her mouth, biting her nail.  She should wake him up, tell him he was having a nightmare, dismiss it all.  But there was a part of her that missed the Doctor  _so much_ , and hearing him talk like that, even repeating an old event, a traumatic one, was oddly warm and comforting.

"I could see everything," she murmured.

"That’s what I see. All the time. And doesn’t it drive you mad?"

Tears sprang to her eyes, for the man with the northern accent, for the man hidden away, for the mad alien she’d fallen in love with so long ago.

"Come here," he murmured.  "I think you need a Doctor."

———

Malcolm woke to Rose’s lips on his, and he wrapped his arm around her waist instinctively, shuddering as the remnants of the dream released him.

Rose broke the kiss after a moment, bringing her hand up to his cheek, and he leaned into her touch, kissing the inside of her wrist.

"You alright?" she asked, her voice strangely thick.  Then again, he’d probably woken her up.  "You were dreaming."

"Yeah, got that, thanks," he said roughly, but kept an arm around her as he sat up, shaking his head to clear it.  "I’m fine.  It was just…fucking bizarre.  There were these giant fucking pepper pots of doom, and then there was this police box, where the fuck would you even find a police box anymore?"

"I…I dunno," Rose said, letting out a surprised chuckle.

He shook his head again and rolled his shoulders.  ”Then you were there, glowing like the sun.”

"Oddly poetic of you, Malcolm," she said in a teasing voice.

"Nah, I mean you were literally fucking glowing," he insisted.  "Light coming out of your eyes and all that."

"Quite a dream," she admitted, but with an odd catch in her voice.

"Yeah," he agreed thoughtfully.  "I was a hero.  Some powerful alien, calling myself the Doctor, how fucking sanctimonious and pretentious is  _that_?”

"Sounds about right," she teased, and he could see her tongue in teeth grin even in the dim light.  His heart did a strange flip when he saw it, combined with the rest of the dream.

"But you saved me," he said quietly as he looked down again.  "It should have killed you, but you did it anyway."

"Then what happened?" she asked, and the words had a queer, breathless quality to them.  He glanced at her again, hesitating, then shook his head.

"I saved you, obviously," he said with a shrug, then narrowed his eyes, remembering how clear it had been in the dream, the choice.  He’d lose himself, but he’d save her.  "Because a universe where you don’t exist isn’t one I want to live in."

"This was the dream you, yeah?" she asked.

He looked at her again, and could so clearly see her the way she was—brave, stubborn, uncompromising, and completely stunning.

He didn’t answer her.  He couldn’t.  The fear of losing her had been so palpable, the idea that she would die because of him so unthinkable.  It would sound fucking insane, the way that dream her still  _felt_  like her, the way it just made him want her more.  Instead, he put a hand behind her head, pulling her closer to kiss her hard.  He pushed her down onto the mattress when she opened her mouth, their teeth clashing and tongues chasing each other as the intensity of the kiss ratcheted up at light speed.

He let one hand drift down to her breast as he settled between her thighs, massaging it gently before tweaking her nipple.  He shifted his weight to his opposite forearm as he kissed his way down to her neck, and she let out a gasp when he nipped at her skin, his tongue immediately soothing the area.  One of her hands went to his hair, the other scraping lightly down his back, and he reached down, groaning against her skin when he felt how ready she was.  Her hips jumped when when his finger brushed her clit, and she gasped his name.  His mind created a strange echo, Rose calling him  _Doctor_ , the name having the same breathless quality, and he swore as he thrust into her, eliciting another moan from her.

He hooked an arm behind her knee, tilting her slightly to give him a better angle as he moved inside her, grinding his pelvis against her clit with every deep thrust.  He tried to push away the feeling he’d had since the first time they’d had sex, something familiar, not quite deja vu—almost like coming home.  He blamed the dream for the feeling’s stubborn persistence, giving his usual lust for her a desperate edge.

_"I want you safe.  My Doctor."_

He groaned and let go of her leg, reaching up for the hand in his hair, lacing their fingers together as he pinned it to the mattress by her head.  He moved his other arm to cup her shoulder as he picked up the tempo, and she locked her ankles around his waist, holding onto his hand tightly while the nails of her free hand scraped down his back.

"Fuck, Rose," he gasped when he felt her muscles contract around him, and lowered his head to swallow her shout when she came.  He broke the kiss a second later, burying his face in her neck when he exploded inside her, stars exploding behind his eyes.

He lay there panting for a moment before he felt her fingers in his hair again, running through his hair gently.  The hand that had been on his back, he realized—their hands were still twined tightly beside her head.  As good as her nails felt against his scalp, she probably couldn’t breathe, so he pushed off of her with a groan.  He kept hold of her hand as he slipped out of her, pulling her with him when he flipped on his back.

She nestled into his side, her head pillowed on his shoulder as he wound his arm beneath and around her.  He brushed her damp hair back from her forehead before planting a kiss on her head, and it wasn’t long before he felt her breathing even out as she fell asleep.  He stayed awake for a few more minutes, pondering her question in the darkness.

_"This was the dream you, yeah?"_

"Any me," he murmured, kissing her head again.  "Any you.  Any universe.  I’ll always want you."


	10. Evasive Maneuvers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm uses self-destruct! It's super-effective!

“Rose,” Malcolm says into the intercom, frowning when she fails to reply.  “Rose!” he repeats, and smacks the intercom in irritation before stomping to the door and yanking it open.

“--very, _very_ good at it,” some intern is saying to Rose in the hall.

“I’ll bet you are,” she says with a laugh, and Malcolm freezes when he sees a variation of the flirty, tongue-touched grin she gives the boy-- _his_ smile.  “Oh, sorry Tucker, did you need something?”

“My PA, for starters,” he says, eyes shooting daggers at the intern.  “I believe that’s your job title, Miss Tyler.  In your own fucking time.”

He pivots and strides back into his office, blood boiling as he calls himself every sort of idiot his extensive vocabulary can come up with.  He briefly toys with the idea of getting the intern sacked, but dismisses it quickly.  Forget the fucking nights at his flat, or the fucking dreams, forget the fucking, period.  She’s half his age, she’s his PA, for christ’s sake.  So what if she’s making eyes at some young intern?  Of course she would be, it’s to be expected.  It wasn’t as if it was a fucking romance.  It was a dalliance, an affair...one that absolutely _was not_ tearing his heart out just thinking about.

“Done flirting, then?” he asks when she steps into his office, and she gives him an odd look.

“I was just being friendly.”

“Dead fucking friendly,” he says raising his eyebrows and turning away to round his desk.

“Are you...jealous?” she asks, the corner of her mouth tilting up a little as he shoots her a withering glance.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he snaps, and the smile drops.  “You’ll have to fucking forgive me if I don’t overly appreciate my PA playing slap and tickle when there’s work to be done.”

“‘Slap and’--what the hell has gotten into you?” she demands, walking around the desk toward him.

“Nothing,” he says, picking up a random file as he steps away.  “But when you’re at work, I expect you to be available, because it’s your fucking _job_.”

“I know what my job description is, thanks,” she says acidly.  “What I don’t know is what the hell you think gives you the right--”

“I’m your fucking boss, that’s what gives me the right to be fucking annoyed when you’re wasting my time and yours with that long streak of piss!”

“You _are_ jealous!”

He snorts, shaking his head at her.  “Rose, I’ve got no reason to be jealous.  I’ve got no claim on you.  You can get stuffed by whoever you like, but not on my fucking time.”

Her mouth drops open in shock, and he hates himself, and her, and this whole stupid situation.

_No fucking the PA._

“That’s all that was?” she asks when she’s found her voice again.

“Of course,” he says, arching an eyebrow.  “It was sex.  Good sex-- _great_ sex, even--but still just...sex.  Right?”

“You...bought me chocolates.”

There’s hurt and confusion all over her face, and a voice in his head telling him to just fucking _stop_ , but he can’t.  Not now.

“You were a bit cranky,” he says with a shrug.  “Figured it was that time, and they might help make you tolerable.  To be fair, it did work.”

Her mouth opens and closes a few times before she spits out, “You.  Fucking.  Twat.”

“I haven’t got time for this,” he mutters, shaking his head as he reaches for a stack of paperwork.

“Tough!”

“This is why!” he shouts.  “It was never going to be more than sex.  I work a hundred and twenty hours a bloody week babysitting fucking morons and putting out fires and corralling bloodthirsty journalists.  I don’t want more, I don’t need it, I don’t have fucking time for it.  It’s not _my_ fault if _you_ got the wrong impression.”

“You--you maladjusted, emotionally constipated--you can’t even let a moment of thoughtfulness stand without turning it into an insult!”  She stops, taking a breath and glancing down before meeting his gaze again.  “I don’t need this.  Not from _you_.”

“You’re still on the clock,” he reminds her as she heads for the door.

“Get stuffed,” she retorts, not pausing while he turns to watch her go.

“Not _my_ hobby,” he replies, crossing his arms over the file he’s holding and leaning back against his desk.

“You’re a piece of shit.”

“Never claimed to be otherwise,” he replies, with dead honesty as that small part of him tries desperately to put the pin back in his self-destruction, but far too late.  He can’t help asking, “Going back to ‘complicated’, then?”

She freezes, back rigid before she turns back to him, eyes blazing.  “Don’t you dare.  Don’t you _dare_ even _pretend_ to know anything about that.  You haven’t got a clue.  You can’t, ‘cause you’re nothing.  You’re just this illusion of a man, there’s nothing real to you.  Dunno why I ever pretended there was.”

He wants to drop the file and cross the room and take her in his arms and kiss her until he’s swallowed all the vitriol, but that’s not the way it works.  She’s his PA, it was never going to be more than a bit of fun.

_Then why does she look so hurt?_

_And why does it feel like you just slit your wrists?_

“Take your lunch,” he says instead.  “Clean yourself up.  We’ve still got work to do.”

She shakes her head, letting out a laugh of disbelief.  “Go to hell, Tucker.”

She spins and leaves the room, slamming the door behind her.

“Already there,” he mutters to the empty room.

He runs a hand down his face, then pushes off the desk and drops the file.  He stares at the desk blindly for a long moment, hands on his hips, before grabbing a paper weight and chucking it across the room.  It hits the wall with a crash, leaving a spiderweb of cracks behind, and his eyes slide closed as he swallows hard.

He takes a deep breath, and when he opens his eyes again, he’s Malcolm fucking Tucker again, constantly in control of any situation, spinning everything in his favor.

God help the next fucking idiot who steps out of line.

oOoOo

_“Don’t let me abandon you.  And please...don’t leave me.”_

Rose sits on the jump seat, arms wrapped around her middle as she sobs.

_“Listen, Rose, I don't know who I'll become.  I could be a terrible person.”_

“Putting it a _bit_ mildly,” she chokes out, trying to push away the memory of the Doctor’s face contorted in a sneer, his voice saying those awful things...but it’s not even that.  That would be simple.

She hates that _Malcolm_ said it.  She hates that he was so cold, after the ways he’s made her feel like she was on fire.

It’s confusing and it’s painful and she just wants to leave and never see _fucking_ 10 Downing Street again.

_“No matter who I am, or who you are, remember that I'm still there...somewhere...and I love you.”_

“Please come back.”

 

 

 


	11. Conspiracy to Commit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The men of DoSaC make a plan.

“No,  _you_  listen to  _me_ , you fucking waste of fucking skin,” Malcolm shouts, getting into Hugh’s face.  “If I hear even the rumor of another misstep by you or any of your department of fucking misfit toys, you’ll be out on your arses so fucking hard you won’t shit comfortably for a fucking decade.  Is that clear?”

“Crystal clear, Malcolm,” Hugh says, genuinely afraid that the director of communications would hit him if he said anything else.

“Get back to fucking work.”

He turns on his heel and stalks away, his PA following behind him.  Hugh lets out a breath as Malcolm yanks open the door and holds his arm out, almost as if he’s going to touch his PA’s back to usher her through the door, but she sidesteps him without looking up from her blackberry.  He stands still a moment, jaw clenched, before following her out of the office.

“That could have gone better,” Hugh observes to Glenn as he makes for his office.  “Christ, it wasn’t even that bad of a mistake.  The figures were barely off!”

“Well, that’s Tucker for you,” Glenn says as he and Ollie follow Hugh into his office.  “Mind you, he does seem to be in rare form lately.”

“Maybe Hell demanded a refund on his soul,” Ollie suggests, slumping into a chair.

“You know, just once, I’d like to see him in the hot seat,” Hugh says.  “He bollocks his way through the cabinet backward and forward twice a week—”

“Because the cabinet is full of cock ups,” Ollie interjects.

“—but no one ever sees him getting his arse ripped open,” Hugh finishes.  “And I’ll thank you to remember that I’m part of that cabinet, Ollie.”

“I know.”

“I see what you mean, though, Hugh,” Glenn says after an uncomfortable beat.  “It is all a bit one-sided.  Terri!” he shouts, calling their own communications coordinator.  “Terri get in here!”

“I see those etiquette lessons are going quite well,” Terri says sourly as she enters the room.  “Yes, Glenn, what can I do for you?”

“Well, we were wondering—that is, Hugh, Ollie, and I—we were wondering if it would be possible for you to dig up some dirt on someone for us.”

She stares at them for a moment.  “You’re serious.”

“Well, more as a hypothetical,” Hugh offers, ignoring Glenn’s glare.

“I don’t approve of that sort of thing,” she says haughtily.

“Oh, please, everyone who works in this government in any capacity approves of ‘that sort of thing’,” Ollie snaps, mimicking her badly with the last words.  “You probably just haven’t got a clue how.”

Terri narrows her eyes at him, then turns back to Glenn and Hugh.  “Who was it—hypothetically—that you wanted dirt on?”

“Erm…Malcolm Tucker?” Hugh says, turning it into an uncertain question at the end.

Terri stares at him again, then bursts out laughing.  “You want me to— _you_ want dirt on—oh god, you people are even more out of touch than I thought.”

“Hard, I take it?” Glenn asks, clearly trying to ignore the chuckles still coming from her.

 _“Hard_?  Glenn, the man’s a ghost!  There’s nothing on him before he came to his sizable power that you couldn’t find on facebook, and don’t think he hasn’t made sure of that.”

“Oh, well, that’s just perfect,” Glenn spits, crossing his arms.  “Thanks so much for all your help,  _Terri_.”

“It’s not my fault!”

“What about his PA?” Hugh asks.  “I’m sure she’s got—what?”  Ollie and Glenn are both shaking their head emphatically.  “I’m just saying, if anyone could have anything on him, it’d be her.”

“Good luck trying,” Glenn says.  “Heard Richards talking the other day about Malcolm laying into him and Thompsan for trying to talk to her without his express permission.”

“Can’t even be friendly,” Ollie muttered.  “That’s all I was trying to be, and he bit my head off and spit it down my exposed esophagus.”  He looks up as Glenn and Hugh stare at him.  “Figuratively, of course.  I’ve still got my head.”

“Yes, Ollie, we can see you’ve got your head,” Hugh says.  “But what do you mean you were trying to be friendly?”

“All I did was ask her out to lunch, offer to show her around.”

“Really,” Glenn says, tapping his forefinger on his mouth thoughtfully.  “Bit of an overreaction, d’you think?”

“Well, yeah, obviously,” Ollie says.  “Talking about how he could hit on girls better in his sleep—as if I need help from Mister Malcolm Tucker to have  _sex_!”

There’s a pregnant pause as Hugh and Glenn exchange a look, an idea already forming in their minds.

“I wonder,” Hugh says.  “If maybe the thing isn’t staring us in the face.”

Glenn nods, turning to Terri.  “Terri, perhaps you could—”

“Oh, no,” she says, taking a step back and holding her hands up.  “I see where this is going, and I’m telling you right now, you can’t.”

“Really, it’s our duty,” Hugh says.  “If he’s misusing his power or facilities available to him—”

“Hold on,” Ollie says with a confused expression.  “What’s our duty?  How’s he misusing his power?”

“He’s having an affair with his PA, obviously,” Glenn snaps.  “Wouldn’t surprise me if he’d coerced her into it, threatened to fire her if she didn’t.”

“Oh, you don’t think he’d stoop that low, do you?” Hugh asks, and Glenn shrugs, but with an expression that clearly states what he thinks Tucker would stoop to.  “Good lord, that monster.”

“Now stop it!” Terri orders.  “You don’t know at all what you’re talking about.  Even if it is true, even if they are…”

“Fucking,” Ollie supplies.

“Yes, well, even if they are, there’s no reason to believe there’s anything seedy going on,” she continues.  “And if they aren’t, you could ruin their lives for nothing.  Really, you’re grown men.  Act the part.”

“‘Act the part,’” Glenn mimics derisively, and she throws her hands up with an irritated sound.

“Fine, do what you will, but I want no part in it,” she says, already turning for the door.  “And I want it on the record that I thoroughly disagree with this.”

“Didn’t really need you anyway,” Hugh mutters.

“I wash my hands of it!”

“Yes, thank you,  _Terri_!” Glenn shouts.

“Hang on, Ollie,” Hugh says.  “Aren’t you seeing that blogger?”

“She’s an online journalist,” Ollie says, in the tired tones of the oft-repeated.

“Whatever,” Hugh says.  “But do you think she’d run it?”

Ollie looks between Hugh and Glenn, and straightens in his chair.  “Are we really doing this?  Leaking the possible affair of  _Malcolm Tucker_  to the press, to my  _girlfriend_?”

“Like Hugh said,” Glenn told him.  “It’s our duty.”

“You know he’s going to eat us alive if it comes back to us.”

“If he hasn’t gotten the sack first,” Glenn says nastily.

“If he’s innocent, he’s got nothing to worry about,” Hugh says.  “Logically, we’re just bringing the issue to light, asking pertinent questions.  If there’s no wrongdoing, then there’s no scandal.”

“Right,” Ollie says slowly, looking between them again.  “Well, I mean, I could ask her, I suppose.  But I can’t guarantee she’ll be interested.”

“Yeah, of course, yes,”  Glenn says.  “All you can do is ask.”

Maddy Reynolds, of course, was more than willing to write an article shaming Malcolm Tucker; it was, after all, her desire for stories that led to her relationship with Ollie in the first place.  Being able to take down Malcolm in the process was just the icing on the cake.  There was a sort of quiet chaos the rest of the day as rumors spread and informants were found.  The story broke online just after midnight, and the papers scrambled to add it to their front pages before morning.

oOoOo

Malcolm is still nursing his foul mood when he drives to work in the morning.  He had another dream about Rose last night, only this time, she wasn’t there when he woke up.  He hadn’t been able to get any sleep after that, so on top of his baseline irritation and conflict with Rose, he’s got a headache the size of Dover to contend with.

“Look who’s here,” Jamie greets him as he gets out of the car and approaches Number Ten.  “Our fearless fucking leader.”

“Morning, Jamie,” Malcolm says evenly, not in the mood to exchange light barbs yet.

“Oh, d’you think?” he asks, and snaps open the paper in his hands for Malcolm to read the headline:

**_Spun Out Of Control: Party Spin Doctor Gets Caught in a Scandal Even He Can’t Stop_ **

_Fuck._


	12. The Art of Spin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm goes to war, as only he can.

“How the fuck did this happen?” Malcolm demands, walking quickly through the halls and holding up the paper.

“Dunno yet,” Jamie says.  “All the papers have it, but no one seems to know where it started.”

“Oh that’s just fucking fantastic.”

There’s a picture of the him and Rose in grainy technicolor below the headline.  It’s not even a particularly good shot, or very damning, but it’s enough that they’re recognizable.  He skims over the story, his fury rising with each quote from “reliable sources”.  He vowed to root out every fucking one of them, and tear them limb from fucking limb.

“This isn’t even  _good_ ,” he says after a moment.  “They’re all over the fucking place.  Is she a power hungry whore, or am I a borderline fucking rapist?”

“I don’t think it matters,” Jamie notes.  “I think the point is that you’re both fucking awful people who have no business handling the affairs of our great government.”

“ _Fuck_.”

He roughly bins the paper as they turn toward the lifts, glaring at Jamie when he holds out another publication with a similar headline.  Jamie just grins as the lift bell dings and the doors open, and Malcolm makes an irritated noise as he steps inside.

“What about Rose?” he asks.  “Is she here yet?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Jamie asks.  “She’s just the PA, not really the person of interest here.  It’s probably not the first time she’s been accused of something like this; hell, it’s probably on her CV.  Dunno how else she would have gotten such a posh—”

His words are cut off when Malcolm slams him against the wall of the lift, pressing his forearm against his throat.

“Listen to me, you little fucking psycho,” he growls in a low voice, inches from Jamie’s face.  “I keep you on because you’re good at what you do, nearly as good as me, but don’t think for one second that’ll fucking save you from the fucking  _fire_  I’ll rain down on  _anyone_  who brings this to Rose’s door.  This is about me, not her, and I swear to christ, if you even  _whisper_  a bad word about her, I’ll make damn sure you’re leaving here in a body bag.  Have you got that?”

He waits for Jamie to nod, then eases off before pressing the brakes again to start the lift.

“Christ, Malcolm,” Jamie mutters, rubbing his neck.  “Act like that, you’d think it’s true.”  Malcolm glances at him, then returns his gaze to the doors to stare fixedly at them.  “Oh, for fuck’s  _sake,_ Malcolm!  Tell me you’re fucking kidding!  You’re stuffing your fucking PA?”

“No,” he says.  “I’m not sleeping with her.”

 _Not anymore_.

_Because I conveniently fucked that up three days ago._

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” he asserts, stepping out as the doors open, and Jamie follows in hot pursuit.  His phone chimes, and he pulls it out to see a local publication’s number on the screen, and quickly presses a button to ignore the call.  “Fucking fuck me.”

Rose is already at her desk when they approach, and gives them a frenzied look as the phone rings off the hook.

"What the hell is going on, Tucker?" she demands.  "People keep calling asking for comment, asking  _me_ for comment—”

"I’d watch that tone, girly," Jamie warns, and Rose gives him a murderous look.  "You’re on shaky enough ground."

"Shut the fuck up," Malcolm tells him, dropping his briefcase on Rose’s desk as he steps around it.  "You haven’t talked to any of them, have you?"

"Of course not," she scoffs.  "I don’t even know what it is I’m meant to be talking about!"

"Good," he says, nodding.  "That’s good.  That’s fucking fantastic.  Listen, Rose," he goes on, gripping her upper arms and slouching down to look her in the eye.  "You need to go home."

"What?  Why?"

"Because your boss’ career is looking a bit like Pompeii on volcano day," a voice says behind him, and he straightens slowly, turning to Richards with a thunderous look.  "And he’s trying to distance himself from Vesuvius.  You know, Tucker… I’d be happy to take her off your hands for a while," he adds, eyeing Rose with a lecherous grin.

Malcolm’s hand balls into a fist at his side as his blood boils.  “Was it you?” he grinds out through clenched teeth.

"Was what me?" Richards asks with exaggerated innocence.

"You  _fucking_ know what!” Malcolm shouts, shoving the other man.  “You pasty-faced fucking—”

"Malcolm!" Jamie cuts in, dodging between them and grabbing Malcolm’s arm.  "Not helping your case here.  You can’t kick in a fucking MP’s head.  Not in the building, anyhow," he adds with glance back at Richards, who backs up a pace when Malcolm grins brightly at him—a sure sign of danger.

"You’re right," Malcolm agrees, shrugging off Jamie’s hand and stepping around him.  "Silly me."  He brushes off Richards jacket, still smiling.  " _Did_  you talk to the press, Richards?”

"I didn’t leak the story," Richards answers, and the grin drops from Malcolm’s face.  "The damage was already done."

"’Reliable sources,’" Malcolm sneers.  "Talk about falling fucking standards.  You watch yourself," he advises, stepping back.  "You can’t stay here forever."

"You’ll be sacked before day’s end," Richards snaps, straightening his jacket and tie.  "You can’t touch me."

"You’re not even worth my time," Malcolm tells him.  "You’re not even pond scum.  You’re the fucking bacteria that feeds on pond scum.  Get the fuck away from me."

"You brought this on yourself, Tucker," Richards says, but Malcolm ignores him as he turns to find Rose sitting at her desk, with the various publications Jamie had brought spread in front of her.  One look at her shocked face and Richards is out of his thoughts; he reaches past her and gathers the pile up.

“My office,” he says quietly, adding a nod to Jamie to follow.  “Leave the door open,” he calls over his shoulder when they enter his office.  All he needs is for someone to decide it’s become a threesome.

“What happened?” Rose asks as he drops his briefcase and stack of slander on the desk and shrugs out of his coat.

“I don’t know yet,” he tells her, hanging his coat up.  “But that’s why you need to just go home.  It’ll be easier—”

“Absolutely not,” she argues, and he stares at her.  ‘No’ wasn’t something he heard incredibly often on the whole, but this was genuinely for her own good.  “Look, Mister Tucker, all due respect and all that, but won’t it look worse if I leave?  Then it  _will_ look like you’re trying to clean up your mess by getting rid of me.”

“I… _fuck_ ,” he spits, running a hand down his face.  “Alright, fine.  But don’t fucking answer any questions, and you let me know if anyone gives you any sort of shit.  And get me the  _Mail_.”

“Forgetting something, Tucker?” Jamie asks, fingering the media binder on his desk.

“Oh, fuck the 8:30,” he snaps.

“You can’t do that,” Rose says.

“She’s right,” Jamie agrees.  “The machine doesn’t stop just because you’ve got your arse in a sling.  If you’re not gonna do your job, ‘might as well resign and hand it over to me now.”

“You fucking wish,” he grumbles, grabbing the binder and a notepad.  “Fine.  Meeting.   _Then_ get me the  _Mail_.”  He turns to Rose, reaching for her arm again.  “I’m going to fix this,” he promises her, but she dodges him, covering the movement by straightening some files on his desk.  His hand curls into a fist before dropping to his side, and he storms out, shouting Jamie’s name over his shoulder.

The briefing goes surprisingly smoothly, until someone asks what they’re supposed to be saying about him.

“Why the fuck would you need to be talking about me?”

“Well, we’ve all gotten calls,” someone says.  “Asking whether we still feel you’re competent in your position.”

“And do you still feel I’m competent?” he asks carefully, making a note on his pad to have an email sent to all ministers about not commenting.  Those who hadn’t already decided to be fucking ‘reliable sources’, anyway.

“I still feel you’re terrifying,” someone else said.  “‘Suppose that counts.”

“It does,” he says, glancing around.  “Scandal or no scandal, I’ve still got all your balls in a vice, and don’t you fucking forget it.  It’s complete horseshit, but I’m going to get to the bottom of it.  Today.”  He looks around again, watching for a flinch, and narrows his eyes at Terri looking down and fidgeting.  “Right, get back to fucking work.  Jamie, go ahead, I’ll meet you at the lift…Terri, I need you for a second.”

Terri approaches with a wary look as everyone else files out.  “Yes, Malcolm?”

“Anything you want to share with me, Terri?” he asks, looking up at her from his notepad.

“What would…um…what would I be sharing?”

“I dunno,” he answers, shrugging.  “Your dying dad’s last words?  Your favorite cookie recipe?  Who told the fucking press I’m fucking my PA?”

“I…I really couldn’t tell you,” she hedges.  “I had nothing to do with it, if you’re asking.”

“You sure you can’t say more?” he asks, watching her closely.

“Quite sure, sir,” she says, still not quite looking at him, and he lets out a frustrated sigh.  He shakes his head, gathering up his things and standing.  She calls to him again as he walks away, and he turns back to her.  “How is she?  Rose?”

“Well she’s not great,” he grunts.

Terri nods unhappily.  “Tell her she can call me.  If she needs anything, I mean.”

“Will do,” he says, frowning in confusion.  He shakes his head again and heads for the lifts, where Jamie is waiting for him.

“Well that was about as fun as a fucking enema,” he comments as they enter the lift.

“Dunno what you expected,” Jamie says. 

"Christ, this is worse than the Gallifreyan high fucking council."

"The what?" Jamie asks with a baffled frown.  "What the fuck is Gallifrey?  Is that in Ireland?"

Malcolm stares at him, an odd pressure cooker feeling taking over his mind for a moment before he pushes the thought away.  ”Yeah, Ireland.  Doesn’t matter, forget I fucking said anything.”

“PM asked to see you yet?”

Malcolm digs out his phone, raising his eyebrows as he opens a new message from Rose.  “Yep.  Appears that his excellency would like to see me ‘right the fuck now.’”  He leans against the back wall of the lift, letting his head fall back as he looks up at the ceiling.  He lifts it again, however, when he sees something in the upper corner.  “Camera.”

“What?”

“There’s a camera in the lift.”

“Yeah,” Jamie says slowly, following his gaze.  “There’s cameras in every lift.”

“And in the offices.”

“Yeah.”

“And the cabinet room.”

“Yes,” Jamie replies.  “Tucker, is this going somewhere?”

“Possibly,” Malcolm muses, still staring at the camera.  “Tell me, Jamie, how difficult would you say it is to access security tapes?”

“Tapes?” Jamie snorts.  “Christ, you are fucking ancient.  Dunno, it’s all digital—wait, why?”

“There may be some…things that would be…less than helpful in the hands of the media,” he explains.

“What sort of fucking things?” Jamie asks, expression darkening.

“Well, fucking sort of things, actually,” Malcolm says, raising his eyebrows at Jamie as the lift doors open on his floor.

“You complete fucking  _tosser_!” Jamie yells at his back as he steps out of the lift.  “You fucking lied to me!”

“Of course I fucking lied to you,” Malcolm scoffs.  “I lie to everyone.  What did you expect?  The point is, I’m telling you the truth now.  Can you destroy the recordings?”

“I fucking hate you,” Jamie hisses as they approach his office.

“You’re in good company,” he says.  “But that’s not a fucking answer.”

“The cabinet room?” he asks.  “Really?”  Malcolm nods.  “That takes some  _brass_ fucking balls.”  He sighs, scratching a hand over his head.  “Alright, but that’s it now, right?  We’re still sticking with completely untrue slander, but at least I’ve got all the information now, right?”

“All the pertinent information, yes,” Malcolm says.  “More or less.  We were sleeping together, we’re not now.  Get the fucking footage.  I have a meeting with the PM.”

He strides out of the office without a backwards glance, and heads for the PM’s office. 

After a…lengthy dressing down involving at least half the cursing that Malcolm himself usually utilizes—which is a feat in itself—the PM releases him with the warning to clean up the mess.  At least he believed Malcolm when he said it was a lie.  Not a total loss.

Rose is absent from her desk when he tries to ask about getting in touch with the  _Mail_ , and he heads down the hall, searching for her with a frown.  He freezes when he’s passing the lavatories and hears the unmistakable sound of soft crying.  He swivels on the spot, narrowing his eyes at the door to the ladies’, measuring the risk for a moment before pushing the door open.

Rose is at the sinks, sniffling into a piece of toilet paper.  She looks up when she hears the door open, then groans and looks away when she sees it’s him.

“Ladies’ room, Tucker,” she says thickly.

“Didn’t stop me before.”  He glances back out into the hall, but it’s deserted at the moment.  To keep things safe, however, he leans against the door, propping it open with his body.  “What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“If it’s keeping you from your work it does.”

“Go to hell, Tucker,” she snaps, and he bangs his head backwards against the door.

“That’s not—fuck.”  He sighs, running his hands over his face in frustration before crossing his arms.  “I  _meant_  that something that’s bothered you this much that you’re in here crying isn’t nothing.”

She looks at him again, then sighs and shakes her head.  “Just…fallout from this whole…thing is all.”

He stiffens, his eyes narrowing.  “What happened?”

“Apparently this explains why I’m such a cold fish,” she says with a bitter laugh.  “I am, oh…what was it…’a slut of a higher caliber.’”

“Who the fuck said  _that_?” he demands, dropping his hands and straightening.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Like  _fuck_ it doesn’t!” he shouts.  “Who.  The fuck.  Said that.”

“Oh, come on, like it’s that different from what you said!” she shouts back.

His mouth drops open, and the argument plays back in his mind, leaving him zero defense.

“Excuse me,” a sharp voice interjects, and he turns to see a female MP glaring at him.

“Yes, excuse you,” he snarks.  “Can’t you see I’m trying to hold a fucking conversation here?”

“Can’t you see the sign that says this is the ladies’?” she snaps back.  “You may be many things, Mister Tucker, but that certainly isn’t one of them.”

Before he can say anything else, Rose is sweeping past him into the hall, and he gives the MP another nasty look before following after her.

“Rose, that’s not—”

“The editor of the  _Mail_ is waiting for a call from you,” she calls over her shoulder, not pausing or looking at him.

He stops, letting out a frustrated sigh and staring at the ceiling as his head falls back.  Somehow, some universal wires got crossed.  If there had to be a scandal, he should at least be getting laid, not chasing after her to try to get a word in edgewise.

 _Or maybe_ , he realizes with annoyance,  _this is just fucking karma for being a massive fucking prick to her in the first place._

“I’m just saying, it explains a lot,” a voice says from another hall a few feet in front of him, and he lifts his head.  “She won’t look twice at anyone else.  And christ, it’s gotta be because he’s, you know,  _Malcolm fucking Tucker_ , and being some power behind the throne gets her knickers wet.  I told her—you’ll never believe it—I told her she was—”

“A slut of a higher caliber?” Malcolm asks as he rounds the corner.

Two interns spin around to look at him, and Malcolm narrows his eyes at the one Rose had been flirting with the other day.  Or appeared to be flirting with.  Or something.

Christ, he’s a mess.

“That was it, wasn’t it?” he asks quietly.  “Because I may have heard it wrong, what with the fact that my PA was fucking  _crying_ at the time.”

“Hey, look, you know,” the intern declares, holding up his hands.  “No judgement on you here.  Your age, gotta take it where you can.  And if she’s willing to—”

“Pack your things,” Malcolm answers, losing patience with the moron.  “You’re done here.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Did I fucking stutter?”  Malcolm takes a step closer.  “You’re done here.  You’re fired.  Had the sack.  Out on the pavement.  Axed.  Any of this getting through your tiny little fucking brain?”

“You don’t have the authority—”

“I have  _all_ the fucking authority,” he snaps.  “But, if you’d like, I could take it to the PM.  Get you a nice letter about what a fucking stupid, useless  _cunt_ you are.  Matter of fact, let me go do that, I could even get it fucking framed for you to show off to guests.  Would that make it more  _clear_ who’s fucking playground you’re stomping through, you fucking secondary-school piss ant?”

“On what grounds?” he asks, and Malcolm stares at him in amazement.

“You made my PA cry,” he says.  “That makes her unable to perform her duties.  And that makes my day just a little shittier, which, considering the way things have gone, is actually pretty fucking impressive.  Also, because I don’t fucking appreciate the fact that  _you_ apparently think that it’s completely appropriate to call someone you were chatting up three days ago a fucking slut because some fucking  _rags_  printed an article about someone getting his cock in her and it wasn’t you.  Christ, you haven’t even got any proof that it’s true, but you’re so fucking quick to believe it, aren’t you?  Because why the fuck would anyone reject you?  Well, now they’ll have a reason.  Because you’re career is dead in the fucking water before it even fucking started.  Because believe me when I say that you’ll be lucky if you ever work for this government as a fucking tea carrier after this.”

“I’ll just get my things,” the intern mutters, looking down and running an awkward hand over his hair.

“Yeah, you do that,” he snaps, pulling out his phone to call security to escort him out.

When he finally makes it back to his office, there’s a message waiting on his desk from the  _Daily Mail_.  He drops into his chair, rolling his shoulders and his neck in an attempt to alleviate the headache that has only increased in magnitude since this morning.

_“Maybe—just maybe…yelling at people might not be the best way to work out your frustration.”_

He jumps up, lurching toward the pantry for a bottle of paracetamol and a bottle of water, seriously considering simply downing the former with the latter for a moment.  He shakes out a couple pills and swallows them, bringing the water back to his desk as he picks up the phone to ring the editor of the  _Mail_.

“Malcolm Tucker,” the man answers, and Malcolm rolls his eyes at the smile in the editor’s voice.  “Care to comment on the recent accusations?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” he replied.  “What I would like to talk about is where you got the story.”

“What makes you think it started here?”

“Because you’re the fucking  _Mail_ ,” he replies, in the tones of someone explaining the obvious.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Tucker,” the editor says.  “Even we got scooped on this one.  Started online last night.”

“Who?”

“What’s in it for me?” the editor asks, and Malcolm rolls his eyes again.

“You escape the wrath that’s fucking falling everywhere else in this fucking city today,” he says.  “Trust me, count it as a blessing, and tell me where it started.”

“Tell you what, you can owe me a favor,” the editor suggests.

Malcolm lifts a hand, massaging his temple slowly.  “That’s not at all what I fucking said.  I’ll find out, with or without your help, but just for fun, maybe I’ll send Jamie down there—”

“You know, just this once, I’m feeling generous.”

“Remarkable.”

“Some bird trying to make a name for herself,” the editor says.  “Bought a few of her stories the last couple months.  Name’s Maddy Reynolds.”

“Who the fuck—oh.”  His mind flashes back to the press dinner a couple weeks back, and he sighs.  It would be her.  “Right.  Thanks.”

“And hey, next time you’ve got a tip—”

“Here’s a tip,” Malcolm interrupts, looking up as Jamie enters holding a disk.  “Don’t negotiate with an asshole who could burn your fucking career to the ground.”  He drops the phone in the cradle, taking the disk Jamie holds out.  “This all of it?”

“Yep,” Jamie says, taking one of the seats in front of the desk.  “Racy stuff there, Tucker.”

“Fuck you.”  He turns the disk in his hand, remembering what’s on it and missing the fuck out of Rose, despite knowing she’s probably twenty feet away.  He tosses it on his desk, and runs a hand over his face before looking back at Jamie.  “Hand it over.”

“What?”

“You fucking know what.”

“Jesus, Malcolm, you’re no fucking fun, you know that?” Jamie asks, reaching into his jacket pocket and tossing another disk on Malcolm’s desk.  “So, any new leads?”

“Blogger,” he says with a sneer.  “I may have slightly insulted her a few weeks back.”

“Impossible.”

“I should have burned her when I had the fucking chance,” he decides, shaking his head and ignoring Jamie’s sarcasm.  “Compromised ethics is one thing.  A lack of subtlety is just fucking tacky.”

“Says the bloke who fucked his PA on the conference table of the cabinet room,” Jamie snorts, and Malcolm glares at him.

“Mister Tucker,” Rose’s voice comes from the intercom.  “You’ve got lunch with Morsten from Treasury.  And you might want to avoid calling him ‘a bag of putrid pus with only enough brain power to handle his neurosis’ this time.  I don’t want to take the messages later.”

“I’ll do my best,” he promises, then looks back to Jamie.  “Find everything you can on Maddy Reynolds.  I wanna know where she lives, who she’s seeing, where she does her fucking dry cleaning.”

“Yes, sir,” Jamie drawls, snapping off a lazy salute as he stands.  “Have fun with the neurotic bag of pus.”

Malcolm barely pays attention through lunch, making notes he’s certain he won’t understand later and somehow managing to not be overly insulting—probably a byproduct of not paying attention, so he wasn’t totally aware of how fucking stupid Morsten’s words were.  Jamie calls as they’re leaving the restaurant, and Malcolm walks away in the middle of Morsten’s drawn out goodbye to answer his phone.

“What have you got for me?”

“Just so happens your Maddy Reynolds had a lunch meeting as well,” Jamie says without preamble.  “Talking to some tabloid about a regular society column.”

“Oh, they fucking would,” he snaps as he gets in the waiting car.

“Yeah,” Jamie agrees.  “Good news is, the editor has kindly agreed to keep our friend there a bit longer so that you two can have a chat.”

Malcolm grins evilly.  “That  _is_  good news.  What’d you have to give the editor?”

“The promise not to bring them into it if we have to smear the bitch.”

“Fucking brilliant.  On my way.”

Jamie texts him the address and a few other notable bits about Miss Maddy Reynolds on the way, but Malcolm focuses on keeping his rage in some sort of check, at least until he finds out where she got the story.

She’s in the editor’s office when he shows up at the rag, and he nods to the editor, who quickly makes some excuse and leaves Maddy waiting at her desk.

“Not a word about us,” she warns Malcolm.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he assures her, moving past her toward the office.  “Miss Reynolds,” he says as he enters, closing the door behind him.

She lifts her head from the notepad in her lap, but doesn’t turn her head.  “Mister Tucker…wondered when I’d hear from you.”

“I’m not sure you understand, Miss Reynolds,” he explains as he walks around the desk, taking the editor’s chair, “how massive a fuck up you’ve created for yourself.”

“Why don’t you tell me?” she replies, switching to a fresh page on her notepad.  “On the record.”

“On the record,” he says.  “You’ve written a piece of slander about a notable public figure without a shred of evidence beyond the word of a few disgruntled employees and a handful of backbench MPs, and could be held liable by the government of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.  How’s that for a fucking quotable?”

“I have reliable sources—”

“Who are they, Maddy?” he asks.  “Who are your sources?”

“I really couldn’t—”

“I already know about Richards,” he interjects.  “And I already know a thousand fucking ways to destroy him, but like I told him, it’s not worth my fucking time.  That’s why they were only ‘reliable sources,’ isn’t that right?  Because if you actually used names, no one would give a damn,  _if_  they even recognized them.”

“So are you here to tell me I’m being sued by the government?” Maddy asks with a smirk.

“No,” he admits, leaning back and lacing his fingers together over his stomach.  “I’m here to request two things from you, and I’m pretty fucking sure you’ll give them to me.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll use my considerable fucking power to make sure you never sell a story again,” he tells her, and the smile drops.  “Forget being held fucking liable; if you don’t give me what I want, the only thing anyone will  _ever_ read from you again, online or in print, is your shitty fucking West Wing fanfiction.  Are you getting that on the fucking record?”

“And what, exactly, are you requesting?” she asks after a pause, shifting uncomfortably.

“You’re going to write a retraction,” he says, holding up a hand with the forefinger pointed up.  “You’re going to post it to every site that bought your shit without checking your sources, and you’re going to spread it to everyone who printed anything following it.”

“That’s three things,” she points out.

“That’s just the first fucking thing,” he counters, holding up a second finger.  “Number two, you’re going to give me the name of the person who gave you the pile of bollocks to turn into gold in the first place.”

“I really can’t—

“Shitty.  West Wing.  Fanfiction.”  He gives her a hard look.  “Trust me, you should be on your knees thanking me for not already throwing your fucking career into the Thames with a bag of kittens.”

“Funny, I thought it was your PA who was supposed to be getting on her knees in front of you.”

He’s on his feet before he’s even conscious of the decision, rounding the desk at light speed to grasp the arms of her chair, leaning over her.

“You listen to me, you hack bitch,” he spits out.  “I could have burned you without an ounce of regret weeks ago because of what you pulled at the press dinner.  I let it go because you’re nothing, you’re a cow with a computer and less sense than ambition, and you’re not even a blip on my radar.  But you made a grave mistake last night by making me your enemy.  Believe me when I say there is much worse that I could do to you than destroy your career.  You think this scandal is your fucking ticket?  By tomorrow morning, every paper will be printing the fact that you, Maddy Reynolds, have a fetish for getting taken up the arse by horses on weekends, that you have six gay husbands that are all here illegally, and that you’re so  _coked up_  most days you can’t even remember your fucking  _name_.  Last night’s story?  That’ll be the psychotic ramblings of the most drugged up whore in Westminster, and no one will remember it.  I’ll be white as snow, and you’ll have to leave the  _fucking_ country.”  His eyes drilled into her for another beat before he straightened, crossing his arms.  “Who gave you the story?”

“Ollie Reeder,” she grinds out through clenched teeth.

“Good choice,” he says, turning for the door.  “I look forward to reading your retraction, Miss Reynolds.  Best of luck in your career.”

Clouds are rolling in as Malcolm stalks into Whitehall and makes his way to the DoSaC offices.  People are practically dodging out of his way, but he barely glances at them as he yanks the door open.

“Malcolm,” Glenn says, glancing at Hugh’s office nervously as he stands.  “What…ah, what brings you here.”

Malcolm narrows his eyes at him, the situation becoming clearer as he looks toward Hugh’s office.  “I need to speak to Hugh.  You and Ollie should join me.”

“We, ah, we should?” Ollie asks from his desk.

“Yes.”

“Is that, I mean, we’ve got quite a lot to do and—”

“Get your arse in that office now,” he says acidly.

“Right, yes, okay,” Ollie sputters, and he and Glenn both move toward the office.

“I just want you to know, Malcolm, that I had nothing to do with this,” Terri pipes up.  “I told them—”

“You didn’t tell me,” Malcolm snarls, turning his glare on her.  “I asked you this morning if there was anything you wanted to share, and you said nothing.  You’re useless, and you’re stupid…but since you’re not actually guilty, and you’re the only one in this fucking city who gave a shit enough to ask how Rose was, you can stay out here.”

“Of course, Malcolm,” she says, looking down.

The men of DoSaC are whispering urgently to each other when Malcolm enters Hugh’s office, but stop abruptly when they catch sight of him.

“Malcolm, I want you to know—”

“Shut up,” he says, interrupting Hugh.  “I couldn’t fucking care less what you want.  I don’t even fucking care why, because I’m pretty sure I have enough intelligence to work that out for myself.  You got your fucking feelings hurt over a bollocking you richly fucking deserved, and so you thought—in what I can only assume was a fit of shared fucking insanity—that the best course of action was to give me a taste of my own medicine.  Am I on the right track?”

“Well, when you put it like that, it all seems a bit…juvenile,” Hugh answers slowly.  “And I do apologize for what my staff has put you through.”

“Your staff?” Malcolm asks, raising his eyebrows.  He glances at Glenn and Ollie, wearing equal expressions of shock and betrayal.  “Are you going to let him get away with that?”

“Well, I believe it-it was Ollie, here, who made the call—”

“Because you and Glenn told me to!” Ollie bursts out.  “It was all, ‘oh, it’d be nice to see Malcolm on the hot seat for once’ and ‘it’s practically our duty!’”

“You’re  _duty_?” Malcolm asks, letting out a bark of laughter.  “Is that what you managed to convince yourselves?”

“We were just trying to…raise the questions,” Glenn suggests.

“Raise what fucking questions?” he demands.  “The question of whether I would force a woman to have sex with me to keep her job?  Or the question of whether I’d be seduced by a PA and give over all decision-making because of her golden twat?  You had no evidence, no grounds, no  _right_ , and certainly no fucking  _duty_  to raise either of those particular questions.  I’ve got a PA who’s being insulted by fucking  _interns_ because you lot couldn’t keep yourselves from _fucking up_  long enough to avoid a visit from me and got a bit miffed.   _Juvenile_ doesn’t begin to cover how fucking badly you’ve screwed up this time.  Give me one fucking reason why I shouldn’t make sure all of you are sacked within the hour.”

“Because…it would look like you were trying to cover your tracks?” Ollie suggests.

“The PM should make him minister,” Malcolm says, nodding at him.  “Clearly he’s the only one with any brains.  Not much, since he still went along with your stupid fucking agenda, but some.  So no, I’m not going to have your jobs today.  But I hope you realize how thin the ice you’re standing on is, and how easy it would be for me to take a fucking blowtorch to everything.  Remember that the next time you try to play games with me.  Miss Reynolds is writing a retraction as we speak…you might want to start begging now if you don’t want your names mentioned.”

It’s nearly five when he makes it back to Number Ten, and he glances up at the darkening sky as thunder rolls in the distance.  A whole fucking day wasted on this PR disaster.  Jamie is waiting outside the lift when Malcolm reaches his floor, and follows him to his office as Malcolm runs down the afternoon.  He checks his computer when he gets to his desk, smirking when he sees Maddy’s retraction already making the rounds.

_"What had, at first, appeared to be genuine cause for concern in the party has since been revealed to be nothing more than an immense fabrication by disgruntled employees.  While Malcolm Tucker’s ruthless methods have no doubt been effective, they have left the communications director with few friends among the ministers and state employees.  This reporter apologizes to Mister Tucker and the readers for failing to extensively check sources—"_

"I can’t believe you fucking got away with it," Jamie bursts out as Malcolm leans back in his chair with a triumphant expression.  " _And_ managed to come out of it with more dirt on other people.”

"Don’t know why you’re surprised," Malcolm says mildly, skimming through the rest of the retraction.

"Well, you’ve managed to save your job for another day."

"The PM was never going to sack me," Malcolm snorts.  "He’d be an even bigger fucking idiot than I thought, and he knows it.  If anything, I’d have a few days off until the blip worked it’s way out of the machine."

"You were never worried?" Jamie asks, and Malcolm pulls a face and shakes his head.  "Then fuck, what were we running around all day for?"

"I told you," Malcolm explains with a shrug.  "None of it was coming back to Rose."

"We did all that to protect your fucking  _PA_?” Jamie asks in disbelief, and Malcolm shrugs again.  Jamie stares out the window for a moment as rain starts pattering against it, then pulls a face and stands.  “Oh that’s just fucking disgusting.  You didn’t just screw her—you fell for her.  Fuck.  You’re on your fucking own now, mate.  Shit.”

"Where is Rose?" he asks as Jamie makes for the door.

Jamie glances at his watch pointedly.  “Gone home, hasn’t she?  Five o’clock, scandal free.”

Malcolm looks at the window as lightning strikes, then grabs his coat and strides out the door without a backwards glance.


	13. Damage Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm makes a confession…and ruins a suit.

The rain starts pouring as Malcolm gets in his car and drives to Rose’s flat, making visibility a thing of the fucking past.  It’s not far from Number Ten, and he’s only more thankful of this when the short distance he can see reveals a huddled figure walking swiftly on the pavement.  If there’s one thing he’s learned in the past few weeks, it’s the ability to recognize Rose anywhere.

“Get in the car,” he shouts through the open passenger window as he pulls up near her.

She turns and stares at him, then shakes her head and keeps walking.  “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Oh, don’t be stupid!”  He nudges the pedal to roll the car forward in pace with her.  “Rose, get in the fucking car!”

“Won’t that hurt your precious reputation?” she asks.  “Or are we just dropping all pretense and going with the idea that I’m a streetwalker now?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

He slams down the pedal, and the car lurches forward to the next available spot for him to pull over and park.  He gets out, slamming the door and rounding the bonnet to stand a few feet in front of her, effectively blocking her path.

“It wasn’t just fucking sex, alright?” he shouts over the rain.  “It never was.”

She stops several feet away from him, watching him warily.  “Then why did you say it was?”

“Because I don’t have a fucking clue why it would be anything else,” he tells her honestly.  “Because, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly a fucking _people-person_.  I’m prickly, and I hate fucking everyone, and I’m rude—”

“Yeah, that’s new,” she says sarcastically.

“You’ve got no fucking business wanting me,” he continues.  “And I may have…sort of…forced that opinion on you.”

“I don’t understand,” she says, shaking her head.  “You said you didn’t want anything else.”

He shrugs.  “I don’t.”

“You said you didn’t have time for anything else,” she goes on.

“I don’t.”

“Then what the hell are you doing?” she yells, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

“It doesn’t really seem like I have a fucking choice in the matter anymore,” he shouts back.  “Because I didn’t want anything from you, I don’t need it, and I don’t have fucking time for it, but I’m still fucking standing here ruining a fucking sixteen hundred pound suit because contrary to any fucking design I planned, I’m in love with you, and apparently that’s not something I can talk myself out of.”

She stares at him for a moment, then lets out a breath, running a hand through her hair.  “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I just spent all fucking day lying about us,” he tells her.  “And the past three days lying  _to_  bothof us.  And I’m just fucking tired of lying.  Which is just as fucking inexplicable as everything else, but there you have it.”

“But…the articles—”

“Gone.  Taken care of.  All in a day’s work.”  He eyes her for a moment, then gestures to the space between them.  “I’m gonna come over there.  That alright?”  She shrugs, and he takes a few careful steps closer to her.  “I’m sorry, Rose.  I’m sorry for what I said, and I’m sorry I let you believe it.  The truth is…the truth is, it could never have been just sex, even if I wanted it to be.  I was in love with you before you ever spent the night with me.”

She gives him a long, searching look, before letting out a chuckle of disbelief and shaking her head.

“You’re a complete idiot, you know that?”

“That has become very fucking apparent the last few days, yes,” he admits, glancing up before blinking the rain out of his eyes.

“So long as you know,” she says, then closes the distance between them, leaning up to press her lips to his.  For a moment, he’s afraid to move, afraid that even a twitch will bring the whole thing crashing down.  But when she starts to pull away, he raises his hand to her wet hair, changing the angle of her head slightly to deepen the kiss as his other arm snakes around her waist to pull her closer still.

Sometimes, he realizes, words fail even him.  Because there’s no way he can describe how good she feels in his arms, or admit with any sort of fucking lucidity that this woman is the best thing about him.

“You know, Malcolm,” she says as she pulls away a few inches.  “It might not be the best thing for us to be snogging on the street the same day a scandal broke about us sleeping together.”

“I don’t fucking care,” he says, sweeping his lips across hers again.

“It’s also pouring,” she points out.

“Hadn’t noticed,” he says, moving down to her neck.

“And my flat’s around the corner.”

“Right.”  He pauses against her skin, weighing the pain of letting go of her against his need to feel the rest of her as soon as fucking possible.  “I suppose we could probably go there, then.”

There’s a crash of thunder overhead, and the rain starts pounding impossibly harder as they turn and jog for her flat.  They’re barely inside the door before he’s pressing her against it, his hand tangling in her dripping strands as his tongue sweeps over hers.

“You’re dripping on my floor,” Rose gasps when he breaks the kiss a moment later.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, lowering his lips to her neck.

She lifts her hands to the lapels of his coat, pushing the heavy material off his shoulders, and his hands leave her waist to shake the sleeves off as she peels off her own coat and jacket and kicks off her pumps.  He sucks in a breath at the way her shirt is clinging to her front, and reaches out to pull her close again.  His hands slide around to the zip at the back of her skirt, and his lips find hers again as she guides him backwards into the flat without bothering to turn on any lights.  The skirt falls down her legs a moment later, and she steps out of it when he breaks the kiss to glance behind him at the kitchenette.

He turns her around, his hands on her hips as he urges her back toward the counter, helping her hop onto it.  He reaches for the buttons on her shirt, but she stills his hands on the second button.  A flash of lightning shows him her face, watching him with wide eyes.

“Say it again.”

He lifts a hand to her cheek, brushing his thumb over her cheekbone.  “I love you, Rose.”

“I love you, too,” she says, raising her hand to his hair when he leans in to kiss her again.

His fingers move deftly over her buttons, and he leaves wet, open-mouthed kisses over her shoulder as he pushes her open shirt off of her, feeling like a man starved after three days of not being able to touch her or kiss her the way he needed to whenever she was within arms reach.  She pushes him away a little when it’s gone, opening his jacket button and pushing it off his shoulders, and he watches with hooded eyes as she turns her attention to the buttons on his cuffs—left, then right.  His hands drop to her thighs as she tugs on his tie, pulling him close for another kiss, and there’s a hiss of silk a moment later as the tie slides from his collar.  She moves her lips along his jaw as she starts on the buttons down his shirt, then down to his neck, nipping at the newly exposed skin, and he draws in a sharp breath as his hands slip up to her hips, tilting his head back and to the side to allow her more access.

“Rose,” he breathes, his hips grinding slowly into hers as her hot breath moves over his chest, and she lifts her head when she’s untucked his shirt and undone the last buttons.  He dips his head to kiss her as he captures her wrists, leaning her back and planting her hands behind her on the counter before starting his own journey down her neck.

His hands return briefly to her hips before skimming over her ribs to the front clasp of her bra, undoing it and lightly pushing the straps down her arms.  His lips move over her chest feverishly, and she lets out a moan when he circles his tongue around one nipple, then the other, before moving further down her skin, and he smiles a little at the goosebumps that raise in his wake.

He drops to one knee when he reaches the waistband of her knickers, skipping over them and concentrating on her knee, moving upwards this time, needing to map out every inch of her.  Her hips jump a little when he nips at the inside of her thigh close to her heat, and he grins at her panting moan of discouragement when he switches to her other leg, repeating the process.

His looks up at her dark, hooded eyes when he reaches her knickers again, and sucks in a breath when he moves a finger over the fabric and her head lolls back, this dampness having nothing at all to do with the rain.  He presses the heel of his hand against his trousers, giving a teasing bit of sorely needed friction to his hard on, then tugs her knickers to the side and slides a finger through her slit, her hips jumping again when he brushes over her clit.

She moans when he pushes two fingers into her, curling them slightly as he noses the fabric of her knickers aside to press his tongue against that tight bundle of nerves.  She cries out his name, and he lifts his free hand to her hip, keeping her still and foregoing the danger of having his nose broken on her pelvis.

He pumps his fingers, curling them against the rough spot inside her, and massages her clit with his tongue, circling and sucking until her hands are tugging at his hair and she’s panting his name.  He chances a look up at her—chest heaving, mouth slack, eyes closed—and groans at the sight, and either the sound or the vibration against her sends her over the edge with a shout and falling back on her elbows.  He eases his movements slowly, bringing her down gently until she tugs on his hair, pulling him away from her oversensitized clit.  He turns his head to the side, pressing a kiss to her thigh before rising, pulling her up against him and kissing her gently as he pulls her bra the rest of the way off her arms.

“Was that your apology?” she asks with a small smile after a moment.

“Depends,” he says, palming her breast lazily.  “Did it work?”

“It’s a start,” she says, pushing him away and hopping off the counter with a wicked grin.

He arches an eyebrow as she steps closer, slipping her hands over his waist beneath his open shirt and leaning up to kiss him.  “Shoes,” she mutters against his lips.

“What?” he asks, pulling away in confusion.  “Oh, right, shoes!”

He toes off his shoes, and she captures his lips again as she pushes him down the hall, tugging his belt from the buckle and undoing his fly.  She pushes his trousers and pants down his thighs, and he steps out of them before leaning down to tug off his socks.  He shrugs out of his shirt when he straightens, letting her guide him into the bedroom, and she pushes him back on the bed when his legs hit it.

He watches her hungrily as she shimmies out of her knickers and crawls up his body, reaching up to tangle his hand in her hair when she leans down to kiss him.  He pulls away with a gasp, though when he feels her hand on him, tugging and stroking until he’s thrusting shallowly against her.

“Rose,” he moans, reaching down to still her hand, needing more, needing her to be around him.  He grips her thighs as she starts kissing his neck again, and she lifts her head, kissing him deeply as she aligns him with her entrance.  They both groan when he’s sheathed inside her, and his hands slide up to her bum as she starts to ride him, moving up and down his cock with agonizing slowness.  He tightens his abs, sweeping one arm up her back as he pulls himself up to a sitting position, pressing his lips to her shoulder as her hips roll against his.  He raises his head, pulling her bottom lip into his mouth as he takes hold of her leg and twists, reversing their positions so she’s beneath him and grinding his pelvis against her clit, desperate to drive her over the edge before him.

He buries his face in her neck as she arches her back, scraping his teeth against her skin as she moans his name, soothing the spot with his tongue immediately as one of his hands rises to palm her breast.  Her legs come up to wrap around his waist as he picks up speed, and she’s already starting to tremble when he lifts his mouth to her ear.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he pants, grinding his hips against hers with each thrust.

“Fuck, Malcolm,” she gasps, and he can feel her breaking apart around him, dragging him ever closer to his own relief.

“Shit,” he mutters, his thrusts getting erratic.  “Rose…oh, fuck…oh, Rose—”

He dips his head, kissing her roughly as another thrust shoots him over the edge, shaking and twitching and holding on to her tightly.  There’s a flash as his vision blurs, another time and place, an overcoat and the smell of apples, and then he’s back, forehead resting against hers as their breathing returns to normal.

He levers himself on his elbows, taking some of his weight off of her as he dips his head to kiss her slowly, tongues dancing languidly as their lips move against each other.  He brushes a few stray hairs from her face when he lifts his head again, caressing her cheek lightly as he looks down at her.

“You are…so beautiful,” he murmurs, and tugs her lower lip gently from between her teeth with his thumb, moving the pad of the digit over the sensitive skin lightly before lowering his head again for a brief kiss.  He rolls off of her a moment later, slipping out of her with a groan, and they shift around briefly until they’re no longer sideways on her bed, slipping under the covers as she cuddles into his side.

The rain has slowed to a soft, soothing patter, and he’s drifting on a cloud of blissed out semi-consciousness, running his fingers through her hair absently, when she speaks again.

“What made you change your mind?”

“Hmm?”  He drags himself back to the present, running a hand down his face.  “Oh.  Um.  Jamie.”

“ _Jamie_?”

He glances down at her when she raises her head to stare at him in shock, chuckling as his free hand strokes her arm.

“He—well, it doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head.  “Point is, if someone with the social intelligence of a pickled fucking onion can see it, then what the fuck is the point of denying it?”

“I dunno,” she muses, tilting her head a little.  “Then again, I dunno what the point of denying it in the first place was.”

“Yes, alright,” he groans, shifting to get more comfortable.

“That said—you did get a bit…fierce today, from what I heard,” she continues, and he narrows his eyes at her.

“What exactly did you hear?” he probes carefully.

“Did you really sack Derek?”

“Who the fuck is  _Derek_?” he asks, baffled.

She snorts and shakes her head with a smile.  “The intern?”

“Oh,  _him_.  God, yes, he’s long gone.”  She giggles, and he shrugs.  “He was a fucking tit.  And rude.”

“You can talk.”

“I’m rude with purpose,” he explains.  “He’s just a fuckwit.  He had no fucking right to say what he did.”

She sobers then, biting her lip as she studies him.  “I wasn’t flirting, you know.  Not with any sort of…intent.”

“I know,” he sighs.  “I told you, I’ve got no idea why you’d want me.  It made complete sense…at the time.”  He pauses, scratching at his head.  “This isn’t some shitty romantic fucking comedy, Rose.  I’m not going to magically transform into a well-adjusted person just because—”

“You’re in love?” she asks with a smile when he breaks off, and he furrows his eyebrows at her.  “You love me.”

His face relaxes into a small smile as he reaches up to brush a stray hair from her face.  “Very much.  But that doesn’t mean I understand why the fuck you’d love me.  And I’m sorry that it didn’t stop me from being such a fucking…jerkface.”

His head tilts and he pulls a face at the taste of the last word, and she giggles.

“Did you just call yourself a ‘ _jerkface’_?” she asks with a stunned laugh.

“Yes, well,” he hedges.  “Excuse me if I lack a little of my usual fucking eloquence after you’ve shagged my fucking brains out.”

She lets out another laugh before leaning in to kiss him soundly.  Despite his previous drowsiness, the kiss ratchets up in intensity quickly, and she’s straddling his hips with one of his hands tangled in her hair before they break apart again.  Her arms are looped loosely around his neck, and she reaches one hand up to run her hands through his short hair as she sits back, and he lets out a hum of pleasure, turning his head to the side to press his lips to the inside of her arm.

“This means more sneaking,” she warns him, and he shrugs.

“Worth it,” he assures her, disentangling his hand from her hair to trace her spine.  “However, I am getting rid of the fucking camera in my office.  Tomorrow.”

“You can’t,” she says, and he gives her a questioning look.  “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” she explains with an eyeroll.  “No office tomorrow, barring some crisis or other.  And Monday’s a bank holiday.”

“Tuesday, then,” he amends, pulling her closer.  “It’s a good thing that we’ve got a long weekend, though.”

“Why’s that?” she asks, flashing the tongue in teeth smile he adores.

“I have got an  _awful_ lot of making up to do,” he says as he leans forward to capture her lips.


	14. Time Management Strategies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm uses his time in a limo with maximum efficiency.

Malcolm adjusts his glasses as he marks up a brief, utilizing the time he’s spending in the limo waiting for Rose to leave her flat.  She’d been worried about them arriving together, with the scandal still hanging vaguely over their heads, but since he pointed out that the driver could prove that he’d picked them up separately, it wouldn’t be an issue.  Not that he really gives two shits what people think, but it had made her feel better, and it gave him an excuse to be alone with her before and after the dinner.

It’s slightly alarming, how greedy he’s become for time with her.  Since the rainy confession almost a week ago, he hasn’t spent a night alone…and the dreams have changed.  Before, they had been strange…odd creatures and adventures and rushes of adrenaline and nightmarish choices.  But with her next to him, it’s becoming more frequent to see her smiling at him on alien terrains, dancing with her under different skies, doing…other things as vividly purple or green or blue rain falls against windows.

He’s wondered idly if he’s going completely completely mad, but then she kisses him, and he decides he definitely is, but he really doesn’t care.

He’s startled out of the thoughts that have fuck all to do with the document in front of him when the car door opens and Rose ducks inside.  He glances at her, and the irritated remark about her being late dies on his lips when he takes in her red dress and its wonderfully low neckline.

“Eyes are up here, Tucker,” she teases.

“I’m aware,” he says, but doesn’t lift his gaze from the swell of the tops of her breasts.

“Yeah?  What color are they?”

“Light brown, flecks of gold and green, almost hazel and utterly beautiful,” he answers without even pause for thought as he drops the file and reaches for her.

She stops him with a hand on his chest as the car pulls away from the curb.  “Do you think that’s really the best idea?” she asks with a pointed look toward the driver.

“Wouldn’t be the first time we managed it under the nose of a chauffeur,” he tells her, taking her hand from his chest and tugging her closer to murmur in her ear.  “There was the ridiculously small carriage on Korfoloax, but then, I’m almost certain she thought we were trying to save space—”

“What?” Rose asks sharply, pushing him away again to stare at him, brows furrowed.

He gave her a blank look for a moment, then shook his head.  “Um, dunno.  Dream, sorry.”

 _Wasn’t a dream_.  “I’ve been having a lot of odd ones.”   _That wasn’t one of them_.  “Oversexed, probably.”   _Where the fuck is Korfoloax?_

“Right,” she says slowly, drawing out the word, her hand tightening on the clutch in her lap.

“Nevermind,” he says quickly, turning back to the driver.  “You, what was your name?”

“Reg, sir,” the driver said, casting a startled glance at them through the rearview mirror.

“Tell me, Reg, did you see the stories about me and my PA here last week?” he inquires.

“Yes, sir,” Reg says slowly.  “Shameful business, that.”  Malcolm frowns cutting a sideways glance at Rose, who looks back with an “I told you so” face before the driver goes on.  “Tisn’t as if either of you are married, right?  Seems to me, so long as the job gets done, tisn’t our business what you get up to in your own time.”

“Is that right?” Malcolm asks, throwing a smug smile at Rose as she rolls her eyes.

“Yes, sir,” Reg says.  “Would you like me to take the long way to the dinner, sir?”

“You’ll go far, Reg,” Malcolm predicts over Rose’s shocked laugh.

“Thank you, sir,” the driver says as the blackout screen between compartments rolls up.

“Now, then,” Malcolm says, turning back to Rose.  “Where was I?”

“Pretty sure you were talking to my breasts,” she teases with a tongue-touched grin.

“Not the fucking first time,” he says, sliding a hand around her waist and pulling her close to kiss her.

In under a minute, she’s in his lap and straddling his hips, and he’s freeing her amazing breasts from barely decent top of the dress.  He leaves a trail of open mouthed kisses down her neck and over her chest, reaching for his glasses as he takes one puckered peak into his mouth.  One of her hands leaves his hair to still his action, however, and he releases her with a pop to give her a questioning look.

“Leave them,” she says quietly, and he raises a brow.  She adds, shrugging, “They’re sexy.”

“You are so fucking strange,” he comments, but does as she asks, moving his hand down to her thigh as he moves his attention to her other breast.

She gasps and arches into him when his tongue swirls around her nipple, and his hand moves further up her thigh.  He groans against her skin when he reaches her hip and realizes that she’s not wearing any knickers.

“And you said we shouldn’t,” he mutters between kisses as he moves back toward her mouth.

“Doesn’t mean I wasn’t prepared for the possibility,” she pants as his hand slips between her legs.  “A good PA always…ohhhh…has a backup plan.”

“Dunno what I’d do without you,” he says, grinning as he pushes two fingers inside her.  His thumb flicks over clit, and she rolls her hips against his hand with a low moan.  The sound never ceases to make him lose his wits completely, spiking his need for her; he pulls his fingers out of her and puts them in his mouth, licking the taste of her off as his free hand moves to his fly.

She rises to her knees to give him room to push his trousers and pants down over his hips to free his cock, then lowers herself onto him, and he lets out a groan as she surrounds him, hot and tight and slick and  _Rose_.

He keeps one hand on her hip to steady her as she begins to move, letting the other wander up to massage her breast as she leans forward to kiss him.  He meets every roll of her hips with a thrust of his own, and the hand on her hips starts pulling at her to speed up after a moment.  She pulls away and gasps his name when he lowers his other hand between them, his thumb flicking over her clit.  The sight of her, head thrown back as she moans in pleasure, accelerates his own spiral toward oblivion.

“Rose—I—fuck,” he pants, needing her to come with him if he can’t push her ahead of him.  Luckily, him rasping profanities seems to hit a switch inside her.  She crashes her lips to his, coming apart around him only a second after he falls over the edge, muscles tightening rhythmically as he empties himself inside her.

Rose is still lying bonelessly against him, his hand stroking idly over her back, when Reg’s voice comes through the compartment speaker.

“Nearly at the hall,” the driver informs them, and they both freeze.  “Are you and Miss Tyler decent, or shall I drive around the block once?”

Malcolm reaches past Rose to slap the intercom button.  “Driving around would be preferable, thanks.”

He looks up at Rose when she giggles and reaches forward to straighten his glasses, and he lets out a groan when she climbs off of him.  She pulls a compact and a tube of lipstick out of her clutch as he pulls up his pants and trousers, and manages to put herself back together flawlessly by the time he does up his fly and straightens his bowtie.  She gives him a critical once-over before licking her thumb and wiping at the side of his mouth and a spot on his neck.

“Lipstick,” she explains when he arches an eyebrow in silent question, and he gives her a nod.

“Do you have any fucking idea how much I love you?” he asks in a low voice as they pull up to the hall.

“More than you know,” she says cryptically, leaning forward to give him a quick, chaste kiss as he reaches for the door handle.

There’s a swarm of press outside as he exits the vehicle and holds a hand out for her, and one of them manages to shout a question above his colleagues as they make for the door.

“Mister Tucker, have you anything more to say about the rumors surrounding your relationship with you PA?”

He glances back at Rose, holding her clutch and the brief he had completely forgotten about, looking every inch a professional despite their…extracurricular activities in the car.  He smirks as he turns back to the journalist.

“Tell me,” he encourages, “do you really think she’d manage to look that cool in _that_ fucking dress after time alone in a limo if I was fucking her?”

“Fair point,” the journalist says with a grin as they walk away.

“You’re just toying with them now,” she murmurs as they enter the hall.

“Fucking right I am,” he snorts.  “Serves them right, the fucking vultures.  They just make it so  _easy_.”

She shakes her head with a teasing smile.  “You think you’re so impressive.”

He smirks down at her before someone else approaches, talking about things that regrettably do not include ways of proving to Rose how fucking impressive he is.

Two hours later, when lunatics crash the dinner and the world goes fucking mad, he’s wishing he’d just stayed in the fucking limo with Rose in the first place.


	15. The Fall of Malcolm Tucker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uninvited guests crash a political dinner, with disastrous results.

“Mister Tucker, sir, nice to see you, sir, can I buy you a drink, sir?”

Malcolm frowns in confusion, turning to stare at Maddie Reynolds with narrowed eyes.  “I think you’ve done quite enough, don’t you?”

“Water under the bridge,” she says, waving a hand.

“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” he asks.

“Possibly,” she says with a stiff shrug.  There’s something off about her, something he can’t really put his finger on.  There’s a definite drop in the cool charm she’s shown before.  “Where were you before this Mister Tucker?”

“Senior advisor in Foreign Affairs,” he answers promptly.  “That’s not exactly breaking fucking news.”

“What about your PA?” she presses.  “She started the same time you did, three months, is that right?  Where are you from?  Where were you before?”

“I just told you where I was,” he says, wondering if Maddie had perhaps started hitting the sauce early tonight.  “As for Rose, fuck if I know.  I fail to see how it fucking matters.”

He turns away, striding back toward the table where Rose is waiting, shaking off the oddness of the encounter.  He sets one drink down in front of her as he slips into the seat beside her, glancing around before lowering his hand to her knee.

"I’ll bet there’s a cupboard we could sneak off to somewhere," Malcolm says, leaning in close to Rose.

"I thought we were supposed to be avoiding further scandal," Rose replies with smile, even as his hand creeps further up her thigh under the table.

"Which is why I suggested a cupboard, rather than just attacking you right fucking here."

As is always the case with these dinners, Malcolm is bored out of his mind. There’s only so long that he can abuse his colleagues without it becoming tedious. Well, that’s not strictly true, but there’s only so long that it can hold his attention while Rose is sitting next to him with no knickers on.

But Rose shakes her head, her hand brushing over her clutch again, a nervous movement she’s shown all night.  He frowns, removing hand from her thigh and crossing his arms on the table.

“What’s wrong?”

She looks uncertain for a moment, fingering the clasp if her clutch.  “Do you ever think about leaving all this? Leaving the politics to the politicians and doing something else?”

"No," he says honestly.  "What the fuck would I even do?"

"I dunno," she replies slowly.  "Travel maybe? See what’s out there?"

"I travel plenty," he says.

"Do you though?"

He stares at her, trying to remember the last time he’d travelled for work.  He’d travelled plenty in Foreign Affairs.  Hadn’t he?  It all seems sort of…hazy.  After a moment, he shakes his head.

“Rose, what is this about?”

“Something’s coming,” she says cryptically, glancing around the hall, and his frown deepens.  She looks back at him with worried eyes, then licks her lips and takes a deep breath.  “You know those dreams you have?  The ones about being the hero out in space?  What if…what if those were more than dreams?”

“Like some subconscious fucking desires?” he scoffs.  “I don’t think so, Rose.”

“What if the Doctor were real?” she insists, and he narrows his eyes.  “What if he were you, just…buried, hiding?  That amazing man with two hearts, saving the universe all the time, all inside a box that’s bigger on the inside—”

“They’re just dreams, Rose,” he says, giving her an odd look before shaking his head.  “Oh, that just fucking figures.  It’s always the fucking gorgeous ones that are mad as fucking hatters.”

“I’m not crazy,” she snaps.  “You’re just not listening.  Here, look—”

She reaches for her clutch again, but stops when a group of people burst into the hall.  It takes him a moment to recognize the people from DoSAC—Hugh and Teri—because they’re whole bearing is completely different.  Well, maybe not Teri, as puffed up as she usually is on her own delusional self-importance, but Hugh is definitely standing straighter than Malcolm’s ever seen him.  There’s a third person a little behind Hugh, and Malcolm’s eyes narrow when he realizes it’s the intern he sacked—Daniel or David or something.  All three are holding oddly shaped guns, and are flanked by people absurdly dressed as shop store dummies.  Hugh shoots at the ceiling, as if he needed more attention drawn to himself.

“We will have silence!” Hugh shouts.

“Malcolm, everything I just said, just forget it, alright?” Rose mutters as they both get to their feet, and he glances at her in confusion.

“We asked for silence!” the intern shouts, stepping in front of Hugh.  “We have a few questions for Mister Tucker.”

“Better than that,” Maddie says from behind them, and Malcolm turns as she walks around them toward the group, keeping her eyes on him.  “He’s the Doctor.  I heard them talking.”

“He took human form,” the intern says, giving Malcolm a dreamy look.

“What the fuck are you on about?” Malcolm demands.  “Of course I’m fucking human.  What the fuck else would I be?”

“Time Lord,” Hugh answers.

“Well, he’s no good to us like this,” Terri snaps.

“Easily fixed.”  The intern raises his gun to Malcolm.  “Change back.”

“Right, I’ve had enough of this fucking lunacy,” Malcolm says, reaching for his phone.  The intern shoots it out of his hand, and he stares at the empty space for a moment before glaring at the intern.  “I liked that Blackberry.”

“Change back,” he says again.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!” Malcolm shouts, rolling his eyes.

Terri suddenly reaches out, grabbing Ollie and holding him close, gun against the boy’s chin as his adam’s apple bobs nervously.  “What about this?  Does this make you want to change back?”

“That wouldn’t do it even if I did know what the fuck was going on,” he tells her, arching an eyebrow.

“Hold on,” Maddie says.  “This mind, it has memories…that one, the PA, they’re involved, she came with him.”

Rose squeaks as Hugh grabs her, wrapping an arm around her neck and pressing his gun her head, and all trace of humor flees from Malcolm as he gives Hugh a thunderous look.

“Have you enjoyed it, Doctor?” the intern asks.  “Being human? Has it taught you wonderful things, are you better, richer, wiser? Then let’s see you answer this. Which one of them do you want us to kill? Politician or PA? Your friend—or your lover? Your choice.”

“Well you can fucking shoot him,” Malcolm snaps, gesturing at Ollie.  “I don’t fucking care, you don’t even have to send me an invite to the fucking funeral.”

“Oh for god’s sake,” Rose bursts out before elbowing Hugh hard in the ribs, then twisting with astonishing speed until she’s reversed their positions and is staring down the other three as she rests the gun on Hugh’s temple.  “One more move, and I pull the trigger.”

“Oh, this one’s full of fire!” the intern remarks with a bright smile.

“And you’re still a creep,” she retorts.  “I’m honestly not real choosey on which of you I shoot.”

“Careful, Son of Mine,” Hugh says.  “This is all for you so that you can live forever.”

“Shoot you down!” the intern screams.

“Try it,” Rose replies.  “Do you think you can kill me before I shoot daddy dearest here?”

“Would you really pull the trigger?” the intern asks, giving her an appraising look.  “Looks too scared.”

“Oh, please,” she says, rolling her eyes.  “I’ve seen scarier things than you in my breakfast cereal.  Married one of them.  Trust me, this is not what a scared human looks like.  Angry, maybe.  Annoyed, definitely.  But not scared.  You really wanna risk it?”

Malcolm is far too busy staring at her for a moment to realize that the intern has lowered the gun on him.  “Rose—”

“Get everyone out,” she orders, cutting him off neatly without even looking at him.  After a moment, she does glance at him, then rolls her eyes.  “Go on, leg it!  But don’t call anyone.  No police, it’ll only get them killed.  Just get out.”

He casts another long look at her, suddenly wondering if he ever fucking knew her at all, before turning and ushering people out.  He orders the powers that be back to Number Ten, and all guests back to their homes, then stands outside waiting for her.

Married, or used to be.

Comfortable with a gun.

Comfortable with  _lunatics_ with guns.

Can move faster than lightning if necessary.

Who the fuck is Rose Tyler?

oOoOo

Rose hurries outside the moment she manages to escape the family—it’s not her they want anyway, and the shop store dummies they’re using to help them are spurring an _intense_  amount of deja vu.  Malcolm steps out of the shadows as soon as she’s out the door, and she jumps.

“What are you still doing here?” she hisses, taking his arm and pulling him away.

“Waiting to find out what the fuck is going on,” he snaps, tugging his arm away.  “Rose, who the fuck were those people, and what do they want?  How do they even  _know_ about the Doctor?”

Rose glances around, then sighs.  “Look, I’ll explain everything, but we have  _got_ to get you off the street.”

“We’ll go to Number Ten,” he says, raising his arm to hail a cab.

“No, we will not,” she argues, pulling his arm down.  “That’s exactly where they’ll look for you, so that’s the last place we need to be.  Come on.”

She turns away without bothering to see if he’s following, since it’s the surest way to get him to do so.  It’s eerie how much he’s like the Doctor while also being so completely unlike the Doctor…the feeling’s never faded, no matter how much she’s grown to care about this persona.  But she’s trying not to dwell on that, because if she does, she’ll break apart; what the world needs now is not Malcolm Tucker, but the Doctor.

She walks for a while until she finds one of the abandoned buildings she’d staked out various parts of the city as possible hiding spots, should the worst happen.  She tugs open the sliding industrial door in a decrepit looking building and slips inside, waiting for him to follow before shoving it back into place.  She remains facing the door a moment, trying to figure how she’s going to explain this all to no-nonsense Malcolm Tucker, before turning slowly.

The room is little more than a hole in the wall, with debris scattered around on the floor and a rusty metal table serving as an odd, random furnishing.  The windows not already boarded up are covered with moth-eaten canvas, and a little moonlight is streaming in through them, though not really enough to see by.  There’s a blocked hall and suspicious stairs leading up, but a few holes in the ceiling leave little wonder what would await the courageous adventurer tempted to brave them.  Malcolm and his tux look extremely out of place, as she’s sure she does.

She walks past him toward the table, fumbling in her clutch for a lamp—one of the gifts of the TARDIS, it’s bigger on the inside—and berating herself for their earlier…interlude.  She’d known the other day, when she’d seen the green light and the strange meteor, that their time was limited.  She should have just opened the watch then, but there had been the fight, and then the make up, and it had all just left her more confused.  She’d kept thinking she’d tell him the next day, but then always pushed it off…and now she’s out of time.

She finally locates the lamp, turning the bottom to make it light up before setting it on the table.

“Where’d you get the bag?” he asks behind her.  “No, don’t tell me.  Your mum’s Mary fucking Poppins, right?”

She sighs, digging out the watch before setting the clutch on the table and turning to him once more.  “Do you know what this is?”

“I’m no fucking expert,” he muses, “but it looks like a watch.”

“Do you recognize it?”

“No, I—”  He stops, staring at it and looking lost at sea for a moment, and she feels awful.  It wasn’t supposed to be this hard, surely.  She was just supposed to babysit some fake persona while the Doctor was hidden away until the danger passed, or it found them.  She wasn’t supposed to care about him, and she wasn’t supposed to feel this guilt like a knife twisting in her gut when she tore away the fantasy.

She swallows hard, trying to find some sort of resolve.  If she can just get through this, then the Doctor will be back, and they can leave, and it can all go back to normal.  She hopes.

“Thing is, um.  Ugh, he’s so much better at this than I am,” she complains, starting to pace.

“Who is?” Malcolm asks.

 _You are_ , she thinks as she glances at him.   _Except not…you.  Oh, blimey…_

“Thing is,” she says, trying again.  “The Doctor, the man you dream about, he’s real.  He’s you.”

“Rose, those are just—”

“Dreams, I know,” she says, cutting off his condescending speech.  “To you.  But it’s really so much more than that.  See, those people tonight, they were aliens.”

“The minister for social affairs is an alien,” Malcolm repeats slowly, then raises his eyebrows.  “Well, that’d go a long way in explaining why he’s such a fucking cock up.”

“I wish,” she snorts.  “They look like people you know, but they’re just sort of…wearing their faces.  I wish i could say that was unusual.  The Doctor and me, we met them a few months back.”

“The Doctor and you.”  Malcolm’s face goes blank as he watches her.  “So you knew him?”

“Yeah,” she tells.  “Yeah, I did.  Thing is, these aliens, they don’t live very long, but they can sort of…absorb the life force of others.  And the Doctor has…a lot of life force.  So he had to hide, become human.  That’s what the watch is.  Everything he is, it’s hidden in there, and you…”

She pauses, hating herself more with every minute.  She realizes suddenly that this might have been part of what the Doctor had been apologizing for in the first place.

“What?” Malcolm asks.  “What does that make me?”

She looks down at the watch as it occurs to her that she could just open the watch, let the Doctor take over, stop this whole agonizing conversation—but then she looks up at Malcolm again and she just…can’t.  She can’t just…destroy him, not without giving him an explanation, and some semblance of a choice.

“The process gave his human body a new persona,” she explains slowly.  “A backstory, a place in history…a whole life.”

He stares at her a moment, then steps back, running a hand down his face.  “And what about you?  Where exactly do you fit into all this?  Are you alien too?”

“No, totally human,” she assures him quickly.  “Well, with a few extra…perks.  But no, human.  But…the Doctor and me…we…well, we’re—”

“You said it was complicated,” he says slowly, reaching out for the watch.  She hands it over, and he toys with it a moment before looking back up at her.  “Rose, this isn’t complicated.”

“It’s…it’s not?”

“No,” he says, walking over to the table and holding up the watch in one hand.  “ _This_  is a fucking psychotic  _break_.  I’m leaving.”

He drops the watch on the table and moves for the door, but she steps in front of him quickly, bringing her hands up to his chest.  He stares down at her coldly, and she gulps—even when he’d been so stupid, he hadn’t looked at her like that, and although the Doctor was a master at that particular expression, he’d never cast it at her.

“Please,” she says.  “If you go out there, they’ll find you, and they’ll kill you.”

“Why?” he demands, taking a step back from her.  “I’m  _not_ the Doctor.  The Doctor’s just a dream, a fantasy, a whisper in a fucking watch.”

“Hold on, what?”  Rose stares at him, then back at the watch.  “You heard it.”  He stops, looking cagey.   “You did hear him, didn’t you?”

“This is insane,” he snaps, attempting to move past her again, but she blocks him.  “Rose, I’m  _not_ the Doctor!  I’m Malcolm Tucker, Director of Communications for the government, I have a whole life that  _I_ remember living—”

“Really?” she asks, then takes his hand, letting his ring gleam in the lamp light.  “When’d you get this then?”

“October 11, 1992.”

“And where’s she?”

“We divorced in ‘97.”

“Then why do you still wear the ring almost twenty years later?” she presses.  “There’s no reason to.  What was her name?”

“Elise.”

“What did she look like?”

“She’s…she’s…average looking…”

“Why did you divorce?”

“Because I wasn’t home enough, I was working—”

It’s getting hazier, she can tell, the way his expression is confused and his answers slower, and she hates herself for it.

“What did her dress look like?” she asks.  “What song did you dance to?  Where was your first date?”

“We…had chips.”

She closes her eyes as another stab of pain sears through her.  “You did.  You had chips on your first date with your wife.  But I’m sorry, Malcolm, I really am…it wasn’t Elise.”  She moves past him, reaching for her clutch again and fishing around in it until she finds her own ring, facing him as she slips it on.  “It was me.”

He shakes his head slowly, his expression crumbling at the face of the evidence.  “No, but…you’re Rose Tyler.  You’re my PA.  I…no.”

“Malcolm—”

She takes a step toward him, but he steps back, his brow furrowed as he watches her warily.  “If that’s true…if I’m really the Doctor…then who I am, who I’ve  _been_ , it’s just a lie.  Fuck, I thought  _I_ was a manipulative bastard.”

“No, it’s not like that,” Rose says.

“Really?  Cause from where I’m standing, everything I thought I knew is supposed to be wrong…including the woman I love.  So you’ll excuse me if I’m a little fucking annoyed and bitter about the whole thing.”

“Malcolm—”

“You never loved me,” he says, moving past her toward the table again, his hand resting on the surface next to the watch.  “You were here to…what?  Keep an eye on me?  Make sure I didn’t accidentally electrocute myself before you could bring your precious Doctor back?  And then what, Rose?  Just say ‘so long, thanks for the good times’ and let me, the person  _I_ am, die, all for him.  And hey, why the fuck not use me to get your jollies off in the mean time, right?  Since I’m not fucking real to begin with.”

“No!”  She takes a breath, trying to calm down.  “Of course it was real!   _You’re_ real…more so than I expected, that’s for sure.  Yes, I was just supposed to look after you, but it all…got more complicated than that.”

“So you said.”  They stare at each other for a moment, then he runs a hand down his face.  “Answer me this, Rose.  Did you ever feel anything for me?  Or was I just a stand in wearing your alien husband’s face?”

“Of course I did,” she says, taking a step toward him.  “I do.  But it was never supposed to last, and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.  But—”

She’s cut off as a booming sound comes from outside, shortly followed by the ground shaking.  There’s another one seconds later, and they both rush to the window to see a building close by engulfed in flames.

“They won’t stop,” she says quietly.  “They’ll burn the whole of Westminster, the whole of  _London_ , to root you out.”

“I could just given them the watch,” he suggests, standing close to her and holding the canvas aside.  “That’s what it is, yes?  His life force?”

“But that’s exactly why you can’t,” she tells him, looking up at him to find him watching her.  “If you did that, they’d live…forever.  And they’d keep doing this, all across the world, then across the universe.  That’s why he hid.”

He looks out again as another explosion hits nearby, his lips pressed into a hard line.  “Can he keep you safe?”

“What?”

“Because I don’t give a fuck about the people out there,” he says.  “Lie or not, that’s who I am.  But I care about you.  And this isn’t some media shitstorm that I can clean up.  Can he protect you?”

She stares at his profile until he turns, then grabs the lapels of his tux to tug him down for a kiss.  She knows it’s stupid, absolutely the last thing she should be doing right now, but the idea of him sacrificing himself, not for the Doctor, not for the world or the universe, just for her, just makes her love him more.  The Doctor had said once, when he’d explained what happened to Jack, that everything she did was so human, and he loved her for it…it’s not until this moment that she fully understands what he meant.

Malcolm’s arms wrap around her as he pulls her close to him, deepening the kiss desperately, and she can feel the tears filling her eyes as she gives in, savoring the last moments with him.

“I do love you,” she says as she breaks the kiss, and he rests his forehead against hers.  “I love the Doctor, I always have, but I love you too.  There’s a lot of him in you, you know, and I know you don’t remember him, but I hope—”  She pauses as her voice cracks, and she pulls in a shuddering breath.  “I hope some part of him remembers you.”

“Fuck him,” he mutters, and she laughs a little despite herself.  “Just don’t you forget me, alright?”

She nods, not trusting herself to speak, and he gives her another quick kiss before releasing her and stepping back toward the table, picking up the watch.  He looks up at her a last time before turning his gaze back to the object in his hand, his eyes sliding closed before he releases the catch.

There’s a burst of golden light that has Rose throwing her arm up over her eyes, and a shout of pain from him as stumbles, leaning heavily on the table.  He remains there as the light dies, gasping for breath while she watches him.

After a moment, she licks her lips and swallows hard.  “M-Malcom?”

He straightens slowly, then turns to her with an unreadable expression.  His eyes are the same grey blue, but completely different in a way she’s never been able to describe satisfactorily but makes her breath stop nonetheless.

“Not quite, Rose Tyler.”


	16. Always You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor ties up loose ends after taking control back from Malcolm Tucker.

He’s still got the fingers of his left hand resting on the table as he watches her, although he seems to be straining against some unknown force as his eyes drift over her.  Rose’s feet start moving without any conscious direction from her brain, and then she’s launching herself at him, her arms wrapping around his neck as she buries her face in his shoulder, tears coming in earnest when she feels one of his arm slide around her waist.  His other hand cradles the back of her head as he kisses her hair, and despite how conflicted she’d felt, how guilty she  _still_ feels, his arms still feel like home.

“Rose, I’m…you’re shaking,” he says quietly, pushing her away a little with a frown.  Before he can say or do anything else, she lets one hand drift up to the back of his head as she leans up to press her lips to his.  He tastes a little different, feels a little different, his lips a bit cooler than they had been a few minutes before, everything giving her the assurance that he’s the Doctor, he’s here, and it’s  _his_ arms that are pulling her close again,  _his_ head that’s angling to deepen the kiss—

Another explosion sounds outside, and they break apart in surprise.  His arms are still around her when his eyes go to the window, and when he looks back down at her, she recognizes the look, the icy rage in his blue eyes that this body sometimes has a hard time controlling.  It’s really no wonder he’d become Ma—who he’d been.

“Right, I have to go,” he says, releasing her to unbutton his tuxedo jacket and shrug out of it.  He throws it over her shoulders instead—she hadn’t really noticed the cold til then—gripping the lapels just below her collarbone as he gives her another quick kiss before spinning away.  He grabs the watch from the table, tugging loose his bow tie as he strides toward the door.  “Go to Number Ten, wait for me there.”

“You can’t honestly think I’m going to let you out there on your own,” she argues, slipping her arms into the too-long sleeves of his jacket and hurrying after him.  “Doctor!”

“I can, because that’s what going to happen,” he retorts, and she grabs his arm, forcing him to stop and whirl back around to her.

“No, I’m not gonna—”

“Yes, you are,” he snaps.  “I need you safe, Rose!  For once, just once, can you  _please_ not fucking argue with me!”  Her mouth drops open, and his eyes narrow a little as he looks away.  After a moment, he closes his eyes, drawing a long breath.  “Please, Rose.”

_Can he keep you safe?_

“Okay,” she mumbles, and his eyes open again.  He nods, taking her arm as he turns back to the door, sliding it open easily, to her intense irritation.  He glances around outside before tugging her out onto the street.

“Be careful,” he cautions her, putting a hand on her cheek.

“You too,” she replies, putting her hand over his, and she sees it, that bit that she’d been missing from Malcolm.  Oh, of course there’s that whole…haunted, last of the Time Lords pain that’s individual to the Doctor.  But there’s also that added tenderness that he reserves for her, when he looks at her like she’s the most precious thing in the whole universe, and he’s got the experience to know it.

“I’ll see you later,” he says, his voice a little rough.

“Not if I see you first.”  The corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk before he leans down to kiss her quickly, then darts off into the chaos.  She turns away finally when she loses sight of him around a corner, trying not to think of what he might be doing as she makes her way down the back streets of Westminster toward Number Ten.

oOoOo

The Doctor stares at his reflection as he buttons his cuffs, wondering if maybe he should have just stuck to suits and ties to begin with.  He’d been happier then…so had Rose.  It’s not that they have problems, really.  But he’s different now.  Older.  Sulkier.  A bit less lenient, a bit less tempered.  He’s got a moral compass that’s jittery as a virgin bride, and he’s never quite certain where it will land.

He’s not quite sure where it landed today.  As his eye catches movement in the corner of the mirror, he’s certain he’d do it again.

But then there’s Rose.  Decades by his side, and she’s still…Rose.  Better than him, better than anyone he’s ever been, probably better than anyone he’ll ever be.  The light in the dark, the ever present beacon, calling him home.  But she must get so tired, shining for him constantly.  Yet she’d been so uncertain when she’d set goodbye to Malcolm, so obviously torn by what she perceived as two men and the guilt that came with it.

Perhaps it’s time to remind his wife why she promised him forever to begin with.

He draws in a breath, lowering his hands to straighten his jacket, the one she’d giggled at when he first put it on, saying he looked like a magician, but he still quite likes it.  After a moment he turns away from the mirror and makes his way to the console room, setting a course for his—Malcolm’s office.  He can still feel the persona knocking about in his subconscious, finding a place to settle in, had heard him screaming when Rose tried to argue.

_Can he keep you safe?_

When the TARDIS lands, he opens the door with the customary creak to find her asleep at his desk, arms crossed on the surface to cushion her head, his jacket still wrapped around her small frame.  He walks over to her with muted steps, and reaches out to brush her hair gently back from her face.  She blinks sleepily as she wakes up, raising her head slowly to peer at him.

“Doctor?”  She glances around, running a hand through her hair.  “Is it over?  Are they gone?”

“More or less,” he says with a shrug, reaching across the desk to pluck a few grapes from the bowl and popping one in his mouth as he leans against it.  “They won’t be coming back, anyway, and that’s really the point.”  She makes a doubtful noise, and he straightens, turning back toward the TARDIS.  “Right then, so long 21st century London, hello…anywhere!”

“Doctor, wait,” Rose says, grabbing his arm as she rises.  “Um…about…what happened.  I need to tell you…I…I slept with Malcolm.”

“I know,” he says quietly.

“A lot,” she insists when he doesn’t immediately react beyond that.  “I…I loved him.”

“I know,” he repeats, raising a hand to cup her cheek.  “Of course you did.  You loved him for the same reason he loved you.”

She gives him a confused look.  “I don’t…what?”

“You were asleep,” he says, trailing his hand from her cheek over her neck and shoulder and down her arm, his eyes watching its journey.  “But he told you the truth anyway.  ‘Any me, any you, any universe.  I’ll always want you.’  All you did was prove once again that, inexplicably, you care as much about me as I do about you.”

“You…you remember it?” she asks, and he returns his eyes to hers.

“Of course,” he replies.  “He’s still here, in me, just as you saw traces of me in him.  You said yourself you hoped I’d remember him, yes?  Well, I can do fucking better than that.”

He brings his hand back up to tangle in her hair as he dips his head, delighting in the taste of her, the feel of her, the indescribable “right-ness” of her.  He can feel the slight telepathic connection he’d been able to forge with her that Malcolm had been lacking, and through it, her guilt and worry and fear, and he presses her back against the desk, both hands sliding around her waist as he angles his head to deepen the kiss and drown out every negative thought.

“Malcolm—oh, for fuck’s sake!”  The Doctor lifts his head with an irritated sound at Jamie’s exclamation, turning his head to scowl at him without letting go of Rose.  “I thought we’d already been through this!  Couldn’t you at least fucking wait until you were at home to play wank and spank?”

“No,” the Doctor replies tersely.  “Something I can help you with, Jamie?”

“In case you’ve forgotten, there’s a large fucking portion of the city on  _fire_ ,” Jamie reminds him.  “The press is already having a field day, terrorism within our own fucking government, and I, for one, would dearly like to know how the fuck you’re going to deal with the massive, stinking fucking pile of shite sitting on our fucking doorstep.  That’s, of course, if you can find the fucking time, between scheduled come and go’s with your PA.  Sir.”

The Doctor stares at him for a second, then looks down at Rose, giving her a wink before releasing her and moving around his desk.  “You know, Jamie, I’ve been thinking about a change in careers.  Maybe go globetrotting and make documentaries, worked for Michael Palin.  I’m gonna draft a resignation, suggest you as my successor to the bollocking throne.”

“You’re what?” Jamie asks, stunned.  “You’re fucking  _resigning_?   _Now_?”

“Effective immediately,” the Doctor says.  “Rose, would you mind drafting a letter for me?”

“Me?” she asks.

“Best fucking PA in the universe,” he replies with a smirk, pulling out the chair for her. 

Jamie sputters as Rose steps around the desk and sinks into his chair before turning to the computer.  “Have you gone fucking mental?”

“Possibly,” the Doctor says, stepping toward him again.  “I’m not sure.  It’s possible that I’ve had a complete mental breakdown.  What would you say if I told you that those people tonight weren’t Hugh and Terri from DoSAC, accompanied by some little shitstain of an ex-intern, but aliens from another world, seeking immortality in the form of life force from another alien with a peculiar genetic advantage in that particular area?  What if  _I_  was that alien, but in order to protect myself, and the universe, I hid myself away inside a human form, with a human mind and a human persona, and left my wife of…well, longer than she’d probably like me to say—”

“Nice save,” Rose cuts in from the desk.

“I charged her with watching after me, make sure I didn’t do something stupid like change the course of history or step out in front of a bus, all disguised as my PA.  What if I believed that was my spaceship?” he asks, pointing at the TARDIS, and Jamie turns to follow his direction, jumping when he spots it.

“Where the fuck did that thing come from?”

“It travels in space and time, so it could have arrived from Sherwood Forest, or from some cave in the mesozoic era, or from a space station during the fourth great and bountiful human empire.”

“Still haven’t seen that.”

The Doctor glances back at her with a frown before turning back to Jamie.  “Or it could have been brought in by movers after being found at a junkyard off King’s Street that I thought could add a nice splash of color, and I’m really just aiming to run off and shag my PA rotten without the media telling me what a bad, bad man I am.  What do you think?”

“You’ve fucking cracked, mate,” Jamie mutters.

“Right, well.”  The Doctor takes a step back from him as he hears the printer whirr to life.  “In that case, I’ll leave the letter on the desk, and be out of your hair.  Give whatever cover story you like.  The media tend to make up their own anyway.  Rose?”

He turns, holding out his hand for Rose, and she skips closer with a grin, her feet bare as she dangles her heels from one hand and grasps his with the other.  He tugs her toward the TARDIS, opening the door for her and waiting for her to step inside.

“Oh, what the fuck are you doing now?” Jamie moans.  “One last fuck in the office?  Bit small, isn’t it?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” the Doctor says, flashing a grin at him before following after Rose.  His smile turns a little feral as he bangs the door closed behind him, watching Rose as she leans back against the console.

“So, Doctor,” she says.  “You ready to take me away from all this?”

“Rose Tyler,” he says, walking toward her slowly.  “I’ve  _been_  ready.”

He stops inches from her, his gaze heated as he reaches around her for a lever to dematerialize.  She reaches up to pull his head down as the engines groan, and he kisses with enthusiasm as his hands slide over her her waist beneath the jacket and he presses her back against the console.

“I really did miss you,” Rose says when he breaks to kiss to let her catch her breath, his lips running over her jaw and neck instead.

“I know,” he says.  He lifts his head, bringing one hand up to her cheek.  “Do you know what I remember most about being Malcolm?”

“A disdain for ineffectual but ludicrously pompous ministers?”

“That,” he admits.  “But also…falling in love with you all over again.”

She bites her lip a little as she flushes, and he moved to tug it out from between her teeth before kissing her again.  He pulls her away from the console, turning her in the direction of the hall toward their bedroom.  His shoes, socks, and shirt disappear somewhere along the way, as does his tuxedo jacket from her shoulders, all while kissing each other messily, lips and tongues being nipped and sucked, ratchetting up the need beyond reasonable levels.  When they do get to the target, he only manages to get inside the door before pressing her against, grinding his hips against hers and murmuring her name against the pulse point in her neck.  As his hand rises to her breast, easily slipping beneath the neckline of her dress, he’s hit with a sudden memory of the last tryst between them as Malcolm, quickly deciding that he needs to get his hands on a car as soon as possible, possibly by stealing Bessie from himself.

“Doctor,” she gasps as his fingers lightly pinch her nipple, and he growls against her skin before pulling away.

“Have I told you how much I like this dress?”  His hand leaves her breast in order to join the other one in sliding down her sides as he drops to his knees.  “Almost as much as I like what you’re wearing underneath.”

“I’m not wearing anything underneath,” she reminds him as his palms skim over her thighs as he lifts the hem of her dress.

“Exactly.”

He leans in, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh as he hooks his arm around her knee and pulls it up to his shoulder.  Her breath hitches when his lips find her center, followed by a moan at his lick through her folds.  His tongue dips inside her, reveling in the added taste sensations that his human self had been denied, the unmistakable taste of Rose and faint traces of himself from earlier that make him groan against her.  She moans out his name again when he works his way up to her clit, teasing it as he replaces his tongue with two fingers inside of her, pumping slowly.  It’s maybe half a minute before she starts panting, her fingers working through his short hair as he pushes her further, years of practice helping him find the perfect rhythm to drive her over the edge easily.  His free hand grasps the thigh  on his shoulder when she starts shaking, fingers digging into the soft flesh, until she comes against him, hips bucking and pressing closer as he eases her down.  He draws away slowly, lowering her leg as he looks up at her, her eyes a little glassy post orgasm.

“Shut up,” she says to his satisfied smirk as he wipes his mouth on his arm.  “C’mere.”

He obeys immediately—there’s very little he’d ever deny Rose, and certainly not under the circumstance—getting to his feet and dipping his head to kiss her deeply as her small hands run over his ribs, tracking their way down to his belt.  She undoes that and his fly easily, and he lets out a growl against her lips when her hand slips inside his pants to grip his cock, stroking slowly.  He breaks the kiss, leaning his forehead against hers and hissing a little as his hips buck against her hand, then pulls her hand out and stooping for the hem of her dress, rising to tug it over her head while spinning her around toward the bed.  He hands return to his hips as soon as they’re free, pushing his trousers and pants down his thighs before he tosses her lightly onto the bed.

He pauses for a moment then, one hand going to the nearest post at the end of the bed as he looks down at her, still gorgeous, still his, even after all this time, and everything he’s put her through.

“I love you, Rose,” he says thickly.

“Always,” she says, a small smile playing on her lips.  “My Doctor.”

He swallows hard, then kicks this trousers and pants off the rest of the way before crawling up her body.  He takes himself in hand, sliding the head of his cock through her slick folds as he lowers his head to kiss her again, and her hips jump when he makes contact with her clit.

“Stop teasing, Doctor,” she groans as she pulls away from the kiss, and he flashes a grin at her before lining up with her entrance and pushing into her slowly, making them both groan as his forehead rests against hers.

“ _Fuck_ , Rose,” he mutters, all the additional sensations of being inside her as himself hitting him like a ton of bricks as he starts to move—the heightened perception of her physical responses, and the telepathic bond practically screaming her own love and desire.  She’s never once stopped being able to take his breath away, for everything she is.

He slides one hand up her arm, lacing their fingers together, while the other moves to her hip, tilting her a little for a better angle to allow him to plunge deeper inside her with every thrust.  Words of love and lust and need fall from her lips as he pumps into her, devolving into moans and vulgarity when his shifts, letting his pelvis grind against her clit as he fucks her.

“Come on, darling,” he urges, teeth clenched as he tries to control himself, to push her ahead of him, but  _fucking hell_ , she feels so good, there’s a tingle radiating through his whole body, centered on the point where they’re connected.  “Come for me, beautiful.  Rose—fuck—”

His words cut off as she breaks apart beneath him, clenching and quivering around him and hurtling him over the edge with her.  He grinds against her though gasps, his vision full of stars and his mind full of Rose.

He opens his eyes as he comes down, eyes hooded as he takes her in, flushed and thoroughly sated, and smiles a little as he leans down to kiss her.  He raises his head after a moment, slipping out of her and collapsing at her side before winding an arm around her as he tugs her close.  She nestles into his side, pillowing her head against his shoulder as one of her legs slide between his.  She lifts one hand to his chest, resting it at the place between his two hearts, and he covers it with his own as he presses a kiss to her hair.

“So,” she says after a moment, drawing out the word.  “There’s definitely still some Malcolm in you.”

“Hmm?”

“I think I’m going to have to dig out a swear jar.”

“That, Rose Tyler, only works if you actually want it to stop,” he tells her, winking down at her when she laughs.  “Disappointed to be stuck with your old Doctor again?”

“No,” she replies, lifting her hand a little to let his fingers curl around it, and squeezing gently.  “It’s always you.”


End file.
